I finally got to ride a horse. Somehow, I managed to grow up in the South, with a step-mother and step-sister who compete in horseback riding shows or whatever you call it (which, come to think of it, might be why I rejected the pastime so fervently), and I never rode a horse. Until today.
Said step-sister and I drove out to the state park for our 11 a.m. appointment to hit the trails. As we waited around for the teenagers to saddle up the horses, I saw the one I wanted to ride, and you know, I think he spotted me, too. His name was Spot and looked a little raggedy, a touch meek, but anxious to prove his horsehood. Step-sis got an even more raggedy looking, smaller horse I nicknamed Mange but I think her name was Goldie.
I realized really quickly that my visions of galloping though the fields atop a fearsome, muscular stallion while the wind whipped through my hair and all the animals in the fields cowered was just a fantasy. In fact, only once did Spot break out of the sleep-inducing gait, at which point I panicked and pulled back on the reins until we were at a near standstill. (I don't have health insurance. I am high strung. And all I could picture was Spot getting a taste of the free life, breaking from the trail full speed ahead, while I hung on for dear life until finally I was flung off, my head hitting a rock, my teeth flying and my most crucial bones crumbling.)
The two of us had two guides for the 45-minute meander: Matt and Matt. They were some good ol' boys, as was to be expected, but the extreme level off their Deep South country-fication was alarming. Allow me to illustrate in a ripped-straight-from-the-scene exchange (to be read in your best slow Southern redneck drawl):
Matt 1: Man, I got home last night, and there were 10, 12 deer in my yard.
(Me thinking: Oh how nice! Deer! They are so beautiful and naturey)
Matt 1 continued: Yeah man, then I went in and got my crossbow.
(Me thinking: Hmm.... I wonder why he would need a -- oh...)
Matt 2: Aw man, you get you some?
Matt 1: Naw man, it was all foggy, but I thought I got one but it done just git on up and run off.
Matt 2: Aw, man.
Matt 1: Oh but I am ready tonight. I got me a bag of corn, two more in the garage, and I got some stump licker all over my stumps back there. And I got a case of beer in the truck and a 12-pack in the fridge. I'm gonna eat me some deer meat, man.
This was early in the ride, and about the time that I realized the only thing we had in common with our guides were the horses between our legs. Other clues were Matt 2 asking me what I did for a living, and then asking what a freelance writer was. He then told me (after I told him I don't own a car but take public transport everywhere in Chicago): "Subways and buses? Man, that's the quickest way to get yourself mugged. You better get you a car."
Although it wasn't exactly the crowd-pleasing show of Napoleon's Marengo, it was an experience nonetheless. Feeling the strong animal underneath me was both empowering and humbling, like I was fierce and unstoppable, a force to be reckoned with, but strangely not in control at all, at the mercy of a beast must larger and stronger than I. After our 45-minutes, I began to feel a little more connected to Spot, as if at any moment he would begin to answer me or agree with my musings on our serene surroundings.
***
It's New Year's Eve, otherwise known as a night pretty much like any other night, except with the pressure to look good, have fun, get wasted, and kiss someone right at midnight. Seems painfully arbitrary to me, but as usual, I will participate. I thought about crafting some kind of year-end this-is-what-I-have-learned blog entry, but didn't quite get there. Maybe I'll think up some resolutions, which will inevitably be broken by March 1.
Saturday, December 31, 2005
Thursday, December 29, 2005
you know you're in the South when....
... you're outside in a T-shirt and sunglasses a few days after Christmas.
... your name morphs into this muti-syllabic word unrecognizable in other parts of the country.
... your statement of good news is followed with a "well, you must have accepted Jesus into your life."
... you see a giant Confederate flag-patterned Playboy bunny decal on the back of a truck.
... every dish is prepared with butter, sour cream, cheese, and often bacon. Or it's deep fried.
... everyone around you moves slowly - chewing the fat with the cashier at the store, slowing the car to a stop in the middle of the road looking for a parking spot, generally taking their time with each task.
***
A note on families and getting older: This year, as with the past few years, my brother and I said we didn't want Christmas presents. We don't really need things, since we both make money and when we need or want something we buy it. And inevitably for Christmas, you wind up getting a bunch of things you either return for store credit or you just take back home with you, unsure of what to do with it.
See, my family still hasn't moved on from the tradition of putting lots of things under the tree and sitting around on Christmas morning taking turns tearing into gift wrapped boxes. With two younger step-siblings, we have been slow to move to an adult Christmas, with perhaps a gift or two and a greater focus on eating ham and drinking whiskey.
But after much rangling, I gave in to my father's requests, and told him a few things I wanted: to ride a horse, a book on knitting and pilates DVD. I did get a book, but then I also got a mid-riff-baring sweater, six pairs of size-L panties, and a hammer and a screwdriver (both of which I bought for myself three months ago when my tools were stolen.) Meanwhile, my brother's only request was no clothes. He was given a sweater, a woman's scarf, shorts and pants. Clothes.
I don't want to sound ungrateful, because I know there are many people far less privileged than I, but Christmas just makes me wonder - Do they even know me? Do they want to know me? When I do tell them things, are they even listening?
Similarly, I went to have dinner at my step-grandparents house the other night, and when we walk in, step g-ma says "[Your step-mother] says you love spaghetti, so we cooked you spaghetti!" innocent enough right? Well, I don't really eat spaghetti, because a) I have hard core GI problems and pasta does not do a body good, and b) I try to avoid refined carbs because they are void of nutritional value. Family knew this. Or so I thought. They also know I am lactose intolerant, but still continue to serve creamy dumpling casserole with cheese and sour cream (or some variation on the theme).
Again, not wanting to sound ungrateful, but it had to be said.
So what do we do? Bite our tongues? Try to connect, but when it fails, understand that we are still family, and by definition we will have our dysfunctions?
***
And finally, a voyeuristic treat. I was just informed of this slice of Craigslist where you can post missed connections - "I saw you," "Cute barista at Starbucks," and even a "sorry babe, I boned my ex this weekend." Voyeuristicly brilliant.
... your name morphs into this muti-syllabic word unrecognizable in other parts of the country.
... your statement of good news is followed with a "well, you must have accepted Jesus into your life."
... you see a giant Confederate flag-patterned Playboy bunny decal on the back of a truck.
... every dish is prepared with butter, sour cream, cheese, and often bacon. Or it's deep fried.
... everyone around you moves slowly - chewing the fat with the cashier at the store, slowing the car to a stop in the middle of the road looking for a parking spot, generally taking their time with each task.
***
A note on families and getting older: This year, as with the past few years, my brother and I said we didn't want Christmas presents. We don't really need things, since we both make money and when we need or want something we buy it. And inevitably for Christmas, you wind up getting a bunch of things you either return for store credit or you just take back home with you, unsure of what to do with it.
See, my family still hasn't moved on from the tradition of putting lots of things under the tree and sitting around on Christmas morning taking turns tearing into gift wrapped boxes. With two younger step-siblings, we have been slow to move to an adult Christmas, with perhaps a gift or two and a greater focus on eating ham and drinking whiskey.
But after much rangling, I gave in to my father's requests, and told him a few things I wanted: to ride a horse, a book on knitting and pilates DVD. I did get a book, but then I also got a mid-riff-baring sweater, six pairs of size-L panties, and a hammer and a screwdriver (both of which I bought for myself three months ago when my tools were stolen.) Meanwhile, my brother's only request was no clothes. He was given a sweater, a woman's scarf, shorts and pants. Clothes.
I don't want to sound ungrateful, because I know there are many people far less privileged than I, but Christmas just makes me wonder - Do they even know me? Do they want to know me? When I do tell them things, are they even listening?
Similarly, I went to have dinner at my step-grandparents house the other night, and when we walk in, step g-ma says "[Your step-mother] says you love spaghetti, so we cooked you spaghetti!" innocent enough right? Well, I don't really eat spaghetti, because a) I have hard core GI problems and pasta does not do a body good, and b) I try to avoid refined carbs because they are void of nutritional value. Family knew this. Or so I thought. They also know I am lactose intolerant, but still continue to serve creamy dumpling casserole with cheese and sour cream (or some variation on the theme).
Again, not wanting to sound ungrateful, but it had to be said.
So what do we do? Bite our tongues? Try to connect, but when it fails, understand that we are still family, and by definition we will have our dysfunctions?
***
And finally, a voyeuristic treat. I was just informed of this slice of Craigslist where you can post missed connections - "I saw you," "Cute barista at Starbucks," and even a "sorry babe, I boned my ex this weekend." Voyeuristicly brilliant.
Saturday, December 24, 2005
moustaches are the new black
After much debate (and a few of my friends thinking I am crazy), I thought it necessary to dedicate an entire post to moustaches.
I am a huge fan of the 'stache, and I think their comeback into the fashion mainstream is just around the corner. As with many trends, this too will begin with people a) ignoring it, not caring about The Great Moustache renaissance, b) laughing at moustaches, perhaps out of ignorance, c) attacking the moustachioed for boldly leading the charge, and finally d) accepting the 'stache. Soon every man will want one.
See, moustaches are the perfect blend of masculine, pervy, sexy and absolutely ridiculous. A moustache says: "I can fix the kitchen sink, I might say something sexually inappropriate, I don't take myself too seriously, and I will always keep you guessing."
Although I think most men can rock a moustache with much panache, there are a few things to keep in mind (compiled with some male input):
1. If you've tried and can't quite fill out that upper lip with hair, give it up. Shave. It's not meant to be.
2. Maintain the 'stache. They must be trimmed and brushed, and a bit of conditioning probably wouldn't hurt it either. But don't take it too far, a la Prince circa 1990.
3. The moustache is not limited to indie rockers in plaid shirts and clip on ties listening to Death Cab for Cutie. Or to horse-riding rednecks, porn stars, plumbers or Edgar Allan Poe. It is not an accessory, but the centerpiece of any style. So grow one, and be yourself.
4. On a related point, if you have chosen the moustachioed way, be comfortable in it. Own it. Walk around like you know you look awesome, and you will then be a successful 'stached trend-setter.
I am a huge fan of the 'stache, and I think their comeback into the fashion mainstream is just around the corner. As with many trends, this too will begin with people a) ignoring it, not caring about The Great Moustache renaissance, b) laughing at moustaches, perhaps out of ignorance, c) attacking the moustachioed for boldly leading the charge, and finally d) accepting the 'stache. Soon every man will want one.
See, moustaches are the perfect blend of masculine, pervy, sexy and absolutely ridiculous. A moustache says: "I can fix the kitchen sink, I might say something sexually inappropriate, I don't take myself too seriously, and I will always keep you guessing."
Although I think most men can rock a moustache with much panache, there are a few things to keep in mind (compiled with some male input):
1. If you've tried and can't quite fill out that upper lip with hair, give it up. Shave. It's not meant to be.
2. Maintain the 'stache. They must be trimmed and brushed, and a bit of conditioning probably wouldn't hurt it either. But don't take it too far, a la Prince circa 1990.
3. The moustache is not limited to indie rockers in plaid shirts and clip on ties listening to Death Cab for Cutie. Or to horse-riding rednecks, porn stars, plumbers or Edgar Allan Poe. It is not an accessory, but the centerpiece of any style. So grow one, and be yourself.
4. On a related point, if you have chosen the moustachioed way, be comfortable in it. Own it. Walk around like you know you look awesome, and you will then be a successful 'stached trend-setter.
Friday, December 23, 2005
holidays = fashion tragedies
When I was in high school, and the term "don't go there" wasn't tired and lame (and Ricki Lake was still on daytime television), my friends and I decided we were going to write a book called "Don't Go There." It was going to be a guide of blatant fashion violations to avoid at all costs. We used to sit around at the coffee shop and come up with chapter titles and new fashion don'ts.
No, we never wrote the book, and looking back, I am certain we were guilty of several violations. Either way, some ten years later, here's my "Don't Go There Fashion Guide: Holiday Edition."
Really, there is only one key fashion violation during the holidays: Christmas-themed appliqued sweaters or sweatshirts. They have never been in style, so me telling you they are a violation should come of little surprise. Wearing these oversized eye sores will not boost the holiday spirit of those around you, and in fact might have the opposite effect on others, like myself (much like holiday music, now that I think about it).
My brother noted today that you never see good looking, young, thin hotties prancing around the city streets wearing red sweaters bedecked with sparkling snowmen, jingling bells or a fuzzy Santa. It's usually the borderline obese women wandering around the suburban Southern mall. It might sound harsh, but he's right, and last time I checked, these women aren't the folks setting fashion standards. (Sometimes, I wonder if these sweaters proliferate outside of the South. Someone please enlighten me. I'm accepting photo submissions.)
Similarly, donning earrings with bells, Christmas trees, or related accoutrements should be illegal. Decorate your house, hang lights on your lawn, but seriously does it need to creep into the closet? Until the day I see someone rock a Christmas sweater tastefully (again, submissions), I'm going to say no. Is there a way to dress festively without looking like an idiot? I am sure there must be, but I haven't seen it.
Also related, is dressing your children in matching holiday outfits - either matching your festive garb or matching each other. Nine times out of ten they don't look cute, only tortured and silly.
After discussing holiday fashion violations with my brother, we decided there was at least one thing that could slide: Dressing pets in holiday-themed sweaters, reindeer antlers and jingle bell collars? Fine. Anything dogs do is awesome and cute.
Editor's note: I don't claim to be a fashion czar, and have been called out many times on my taste (such as moustaches and plaid shirts, but c'mon those are awesome!). But this is my blog, and I get to act like I know something. Also, I (and my brother) kind of become a scrooge this time of year when surrounded by slow-driving, Christmas-sweater-wearing Southerners lapping up the Christmas sales and humming about building a snowman in the morning. Jesus. Bah humbug.
No, we never wrote the book, and looking back, I am certain we were guilty of several violations. Either way, some ten years later, here's my "Don't Go There Fashion Guide: Holiday Edition."
Really, there is only one key fashion violation during the holidays: Christmas-themed appliqued sweaters or sweatshirts. They have never been in style, so me telling you they are a violation should come of little surprise. Wearing these oversized eye sores will not boost the holiday spirit of those around you, and in fact might have the opposite effect on others, like myself (much like holiday music, now that I think about it).
My brother noted today that you never see good looking, young, thin hotties prancing around the city streets wearing red sweaters bedecked with sparkling snowmen, jingling bells or a fuzzy Santa. It's usually the borderline obese women wandering around the suburban Southern mall. It might sound harsh, but he's right, and last time I checked, these women aren't the folks setting fashion standards. (Sometimes, I wonder if these sweaters proliferate outside of the South. Someone please enlighten me. I'm accepting photo submissions.)
Similarly, donning earrings with bells, Christmas trees, or related accoutrements should be illegal. Decorate your house, hang lights on your lawn, but seriously does it need to creep into the closet? Until the day I see someone rock a Christmas sweater tastefully (again, submissions), I'm going to say no. Is there a way to dress festively without looking like an idiot? I am sure there must be, but I haven't seen it.
Also related, is dressing your children in matching holiday outfits - either matching your festive garb or matching each other. Nine times out of ten they don't look cute, only tortured and silly.
After discussing holiday fashion violations with my brother, we decided there was at least one thing that could slide: Dressing pets in holiday-themed sweaters, reindeer antlers and jingle bell collars? Fine. Anything dogs do is awesome and cute.
Editor's note: I don't claim to be a fashion czar, and have been called out many times on my taste (such as moustaches and plaid shirts, but c'mon those are awesome!). But this is my blog, and I get to act like I know something. Also, I (and my brother) kind of become a scrooge this time of year when surrounded by slow-driving, Christmas-sweater-wearing Southerners lapping up the Christmas sales and humming about building a snowman in the morning. Jesus. Bah humbug.
Thursday, December 22, 2005
pouring one out
This time of year is always tainted with the persistent hole left by people we've lost. When a piece of the family is missing - no matter how long that piece was taken and no matter how many or few other family members come together - we are always acutely aware that they aren't here too.
Last night, a friend of mine and I were talking about our dead mothers. Her mom died last spring - on Mother's Day no less - and the two were very close. We were talking about how now it's like she has been given the password to the secret club, how she's somehow different, marked, and only young people who have lost a parent understand, but that it's unspoken. This is a feeling I have had for more than a dozen years.
People are painfully uncomfortable talking about death. My friend recalled how others tip-toe around her mom's death, choosing their words carefully. But why? Are they afraid she'll have a comeapart? That it's not really real, and by talking about it makes it so? That she'll be insulted you brought it up? I don't really remember the awkwardness because I was so young, but even today, when it comes out that I lost my mother, people want to apologize, change the subject, unsure how to ask the nagging questions like how old were you, and was it cancer.
To be sure, folks, not a day goes by that I don't think about my mother. She made me who I am, and I own every part of it - her life, her illness, her death - and it has grown with me. Nothing about it makes me uncomfortable, and my guess is it's the same way for many young people who have lost a parent.
So I say let's talk about our dead mothers, and better yet, let's pour one out. Which is exactly what my friend and I did.
She had poured me a glass of wine, just as we were wrapping up our having-a-dead-mother-is-the-pits talk. And both our mother's were big drinkers - hers: Bud Light in cans and red wine, mine: Bourbon on the rocks. So I said, "Let's pour one out for our moms." We both positioned our glasses to let a little drop hit the ground for them, paused, and looking at each other said simultaneously: "But not too much!" (knowing our mother's would never want us to waste a drink!)
Last night, a friend of mine and I were talking about our dead mothers. Her mom died last spring - on Mother's Day no less - and the two were very close. We were talking about how now it's like she has been given the password to the secret club, how she's somehow different, marked, and only young people who have lost a parent understand, but that it's unspoken. This is a feeling I have had for more than a dozen years.
People are painfully uncomfortable talking about death. My friend recalled how others tip-toe around her mom's death, choosing their words carefully. But why? Are they afraid she'll have a comeapart? That it's not really real, and by talking about it makes it so? That she'll be insulted you brought it up? I don't really remember the awkwardness because I was so young, but even today, when it comes out that I lost my mother, people want to apologize, change the subject, unsure how to ask the nagging questions like how old were you, and was it cancer.
To be sure, folks, not a day goes by that I don't think about my mother. She made me who I am, and I own every part of it - her life, her illness, her death - and it has grown with me. Nothing about it makes me uncomfortable, and my guess is it's the same way for many young people who have lost a parent.
So I say let's talk about our dead mothers, and better yet, let's pour one out. Which is exactly what my friend and I did.
She had poured me a glass of wine, just as we were wrapping up our having-a-dead-mother-is-the-pits talk. And both our mother's were big drinkers - hers: Bud Light in cans and red wine, mine: Bourbon on the rocks. So I said, "Let's pour one out for our moms." We both positioned our glasses to let a little drop hit the ground for them, paused, and looking at each other said simultaneously: "But not too much!" (knowing our mother's would never want us to waste a drink!)
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
a really important update
If you'll recall, I wrote a while back about embarking on something of a bathing experiment. I traded in my harsh bar soap, usually the 39 cent Walgreens brand, for the body wash and loofah routine.
It's been a little more than a month of me using the new products fairly regularly. Inspired by the process, I also brought fancy face wash into the shower and followed the washing with a post-shower full body lotioning (something I know we should all do, especially considering the windchill was -15 degrees today - just murder on your skin!). Here are my post-experiment observations:
- My skin was almost instantly softer and certainly smoother - at least to me - and less winter-triggered itchy.
- Because I used several new products, it is hard to say the product to which I can attribute the change. For example, the body wash and loofah might have done well on exfoliating, but perhaps the lotion was the softening kicker. Hard to say.
- The length of the shower has at least doubled to roughly 8 minutes, and days when I don't have that kind of time, or I am just needing a post-gym rinse, the bar soap wins.
- One downfall was that after I used the body wash, I felt as if it never fully rinsed off, like there was a film of soap left behind - a far cry from the clinically squeaky-clean Ivory soap feeling. Sometimes I prefer that feeling, although my skin tells me otherwise.
In all, I will likely continue the regimen, perhaps trying new brands of shower gel (I've been told a clear gel rather than the creamy Dove variety might suit me better). I could live without the shave gel, but I think it will be 15 years before I finish off this massive can. But lotion has certainly been incorporated into my daily routine. I still fancy myself low maintenance, so only some of this elaborate regimen can become permanent.
****
I went to eat Ethiopian food tonight for what I thought was the first time. It felt like a brand new experience, tastes and textures and techniques I have never tried before. Then I got home, and my BF reminded me we ate Ethiopian when we first lived in DC. Maybe he's pulling my leg, or maybe I have serious memory retention issues.
But if you haven't tried it, I highly recommend it. You use this spongy, stretchy, kind of bitter tasting bread - which strangely feels like you could sew the pieces together for a sweatshirt - to pick up the food. Lentils, spicy chicken falling off the bone, creamy spinach, are plopped in dollops on another thin layer of said bread. Eating with your hands feels natural and liberating. Service was painfully slow, company was delightful, and food delicious.
****
In other news, you will all be pleased to know I did not blow my brains out at Sears while holiday shopping this weekend, as I feared. (I came close at Marshall Fields, but resorted to a mini-comeapart, interrupted by a kind woman asking me and my friend if we thought a 13-year-old girl would like the hideous hoodie with two black cats she had picked out. Her question allowed me to focus for a minute, thus staving off a complete meltdown.) In fact, being downtown was quite festive, and perhaps the highlight was seeing a few dozen pigeons huddled around the eternal flame at Daley Plaza. Not sure why I liked that scene so much, but perhaps because it made total sense. They were cold too. They found fire and huddled up near it. Of course.
It's been a little more than a month of me using the new products fairly regularly. Inspired by the process, I also brought fancy face wash into the shower and followed the washing with a post-shower full body lotioning (something I know we should all do, especially considering the windchill was -15 degrees today - just murder on your skin!). Here are my post-experiment observations:
- My skin was almost instantly softer and certainly smoother - at least to me - and less winter-triggered itchy.
- Because I used several new products, it is hard to say the product to which I can attribute the change. For example, the body wash and loofah might have done well on exfoliating, but perhaps the lotion was the softening kicker. Hard to say.
- The length of the shower has at least doubled to roughly 8 minutes, and days when I don't have that kind of time, or I am just needing a post-gym rinse, the bar soap wins.
- One downfall was that after I used the body wash, I felt as if it never fully rinsed off, like there was a film of soap left behind - a far cry from the clinically squeaky-clean Ivory soap feeling. Sometimes I prefer that feeling, although my skin tells me otherwise.
In all, I will likely continue the regimen, perhaps trying new brands of shower gel (I've been told a clear gel rather than the creamy Dove variety might suit me better). I could live without the shave gel, but I think it will be 15 years before I finish off this massive can. But lotion has certainly been incorporated into my daily routine. I still fancy myself low maintenance, so only some of this elaborate regimen can become permanent.
****
I went to eat Ethiopian food tonight for what I thought was the first time. It felt like a brand new experience, tastes and textures and techniques I have never tried before. Then I got home, and my BF reminded me we ate Ethiopian when we first lived in DC. Maybe he's pulling my leg, or maybe I have serious memory retention issues.
But if you haven't tried it, I highly recommend it. You use this spongy, stretchy, kind of bitter tasting bread - which strangely feels like you could sew the pieces together for a sweatshirt - to pick up the food. Lentils, spicy chicken falling off the bone, creamy spinach, are plopped in dollops on another thin layer of said bread. Eating with your hands feels natural and liberating. Service was painfully slow, company was delightful, and food delicious.
****
In other news, you will all be pleased to know I did not blow my brains out at Sears while holiday shopping this weekend, as I feared. (I came close at Marshall Fields, but resorted to a mini-comeapart, interrupted by a kind woman asking me and my friend if we thought a 13-year-old girl would like the hideous hoodie with two black cats she had picked out. Her question allowed me to focus for a minute, thus staving off a complete meltdown.) In fact, being downtown was quite festive, and perhaps the highlight was seeing a few dozen pigeons huddled around the eternal flame at Daley Plaza. Not sure why I liked that scene so much, but perhaps because it made total sense. They were cold too. They found fire and huddled up near it. Of course.
Saturday, December 17, 2005
women who hate other women
As I get older, it's rare that I meet women who hate other women - who put off the chilly vibes that they don't like the company of other women or they don't have many female friends.
I feel like when we are younger and still figuring out who we are, what makes us confident and comfortable, we can be easily threatened by other women. (I will say here, however, that I don't think that was the case for me, because I was raised by an incredibly strong woman who taught me to love myself and be comfortable with who I am. By way of example, I once said I envied someone, and she stopped dead in her tracks and told me to never envy anyone and to be happy with who I am what I have.)
I am also a woman who has always had close girlfriends and easily connects with other women (well, usually just the ones who aren't high maintenance and have an unstoppable sense of humor). But then every once in a while, I meet a woman who will throw up a wall or turn her chin or press a pained smile in a cold reminder that she is intensely disinterested in any further interaction with you.
So why, I ask you, do some women just seem to hate other women? Is it a lack of confidence, a threat to who-knows-what, simply preferring the company of men? (Or - gasp - could it be that I am reading too much into it, that it's not all women... that it's just me they don't like?)
And why does someone like myself feel the need for said women to like me?
Editor's note: I write this vague and nebulous post because a) this was on my mind and b) unless you find reporting on decorative pillows and technology management (not in the same story) interesting, there's been little excitement in my life in the past few days.
Now I am off to join the shopping masses and try not to blow my brains out at Sears.
I feel like when we are younger and still figuring out who we are, what makes us confident and comfortable, we can be easily threatened by other women. (I will say here, however, that I don't think that was the case for me, because I was raised by an incredibly strong woman who taught me to love myself and be comfortable with who I am. By way of example, I once said I envied someone, and she stopped dead in her tracks and told me to never envy anyone and to be happy with who I am what I have.)
I am also a woman who has always had close girlfriends and easily connects with other women (well, usually just the ones who aren't high maintenance and have an unstoppable sense of humor). But then every once in a while, I meet a woman who will throw up a wall or turn her chin or press a pained smile in a cold reminder that she is intensely disinterested in any further interaction with you.
So why, I ask you, do some women just seem to hate other women? Is it a lack of confidence, a threat to who-knows-what, simply preferring the company of men? (Or - gasp - could it be that I am reading too much into it, that it's not all women... that it's just me they don't like?)
And why does someone like myself feel the need for said women to like me?
Editor's note: I write this vague and nebulous post because a) this was on my mind and b) unless you find reporting on decorative pillows and technology management (not in the same story) interesting, there's been little excitement in my life in the past few days.
Now I am off to join the shopping masses and try not to blow my brains out at Sears.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
blurring the lines
It seems like everything we watch on television these days is a commercial. Even if you are Tivo-ing the program.
Sure, the show might say it's the Ellen DeGeneres show (which, as we all know, I love) or Martha or the Today's show or even a local news program, but it's just a veiled commercial. Product placement isn't new, and as more and more people are recording their shows sans commercial breaks, the stealthy placement of the Pepsi can or the character rolling up in a Range Rover has increased and expanded. But now, we are seeing entire shows taken over by companies.
Take Ellen's segment 'To spend or save,' based on the American Express motto with prizes and trips funded by the company. What's worse was Martha Stewart's entire show recently dedicated to showcasing eBay items. And every morning, the Today's show devotes entire segments to plugging certain brands, veiled as holiday tips.
And now, at least one local morning program has become entirely advertainment.
From Minnesota Public Radio: "This spring [Minneapolis/St. Paul television station KARE] will be the first in the nation to convert its long-running morning news show into a long-running commercial, called "Showcase Minnesota." You'll see anchor hosts sitting in comfy chairs, with guests snuggled next to them, to talk up the latest in food, fashion and gadgets. Guests will pay to be on the new show and the anchors will act like inquisitive hucksters."
Revenue, revenue, revenue. Sure, I got it.
But this trend makes me increasingly uncomfortable. Most people understand these shows to be entertainment or news (or in many cases, a combination of the two), not commercials. As the MPR story puts it, the shows become just an hour of segments sold to the highest bidder masquerading as programming. It's like those pages in magazines that are modeled after articles, but that say "Advertisement" quietly at the top so people understand what they are reading. Perhaps these shows should have the same tag. Right under the "Live" logo, it should say "Advertisement" or "Advertainment." Or more appropriately, the shows - really, just glorified infomercials - should stay on late night cable channels, rather than dressing up as a morning news program to push products.
It just seems like this is another piece of the degradation of news media, though it might be a stretch to call these programs news in the first place. But if you replace the morning news programs with commercials modeled after such shows and the mid-day entertainment shows with commercials - stealthily veiled as the Martha show - our world on television becomes nothing but commercials (and well, reality shows). I understand print media already has massive corporate pressures that often seep into the editorial, but if this type of advertorial TV program persists successfully, what happens to print media?
Sure, the show might say it's the Ellen DeGeneres show (which, as we all know, I love) or Martha or the Today's show or even a local news program, but it's just a veiled commercial. Product placement isn't new, and as more and more people are recording their shows sans commercial breaks, the stealthy placement of the Pepsi can or the character rolling up in a Range Rover has increased and expanded. But now, we are seeing entire shows taken over by companies.
Take Ellen's segment 'To spend or save,' based on the American Express motto with prizes and trips funded by the company. What's worse was Martha Stewart's entire show recently dedicated to showcasing eBay items. And every morning, the Today's show devotes entire segments to plugging certain brands, veiled as holiday tips.
And now, at least one local morning program has become entirely advertainment.
From Minnesota Public Radio: "This spring [Minneapolis/St. Paul television station KARE] will be the first in the nation to convert its long-running morning news show into a long-running commercial, called "Showcase Minnesota." You'll see anchor hosts sitting in comfy chairs, with guests snuggled next to them, to talk up the latest in food, fashion and gadgets. Guests will pay to be on the new show and the anchors will act like inquisitive hucksters."
Revenue, revenue, revenue. Sure, I got it.
But this trend makes me increasingly uncomfortable. Most people understand these shows to be entertainment or news (or in many cases, a combination of the two), not commercials. As the MPR story puts it, the shows become just an hour of segments sold to the highest bidder masquerading as programming. It's like those pages in magazines that are modeled after articles, but that say "Advertisement" quietly at the top so people understand what they are reading. Perhaps these shows should have the same tag. Right under the "Live" logo, it should say "Advertisement" or "Advertainment." Or more appropriately, the shows - really, just glorified infomercials - should stay on late night cable channels, rather than dressing up as a morning news program to push products.
It just seems like this is another piece of the degradation of news media, though it might be a stretch to call these programs news in the first place. But if you replace the morning news programs with commercials modeled after such shows and the mid-day entertainment shows with commercials - stealthily veiled as the Martha show - our world on television becomes nothing but commercials (and well, reality shows). I understand print media already has massive corporate pressures that often seep into the editorial, but if this type of advertorial TV program persists successfully, what happens to print media?
Monday, December 12, 2005
a question
This crucial question, which I have pondered from time to time, was best articulated by my friend CK. (I have to quote her here, because the way she said it was really funny):
"Do awkward people know they are awkward, a la do white trash people know they are white trash?"
I am not quite as concerned about the white trash debate (and I apologize if anyone is offended by this term, it's all in good fun), but am more wondering about awkward people. (The definition of awkward is loose here - just those people who make certain situations uncomfortable for people like me, who admittedly talk incessantly to avoid weird silences.)
As a follow up, are awkward people only awkward to people like myself? Similarly, after an awkward situation, do awkward people say, "Man, that was so awkward." Or do they say, "Hmm, that was totally normal, although she kind of talks a lot."
I just thought I'd throw that out there. Please feel free to debate.
"Do awkward people know they are awkward, a la do white trash people know they are white trash?"
I am not quite as concerned about the white trash debate (and I apologize if anyone is offended by this term, it's all in good fun), but am more wondering about awkward people. (The definition of awkward is loose here - just those people who make certain situations uncomfortable for people like me, who admittedly talk incessantly to avoid weird silences.)
As a follow up, are awkward people only awkward to people like myself? Similarly, after an awkward situation, do awkward people say, "Man, that was so awkward." Or do they say, "Hmm, that was totally normal, although she kind of talks a lot."
I just thought I'd throw that out there. Please feel free to debate.
Yankee Swap, Jr.
Perhaps a bit inspired by my Thanksgiving post, a friend of mine threw a Yankee Swap party this weekend, which I must say went swimmingly, especially since the rules were a little different that I'm used to.
Rather than allowing each person to open a gift and then survey the previously opened gifts before deciding to keep it or swap, the person had to make that dire decision before unwrapping a gift. So if you saw something you think you wanted, you had just blindly risk it all and yank it from your friend's fingers.
As Yankee Swaps go, I got screwed. I drew No. 2, and basically had little power to determine my gift receiving destiny. I tossed out conventional wisdom - and my own campaign to not acquire more things that take up space in my tiny apartment - and went for the biggest box. Inside were two beanie babies - one Pillsbury Doughboy and one bear with a "November" patch on his chest - and an artsy calendar I still haven't figured out how to work.
Other gifts included a Christmas CD from the New Kids on the Block (surely a classic), a starter log and a bag of chestnuts (complete with a soundtrack cued as she opened the package), a re-gifted wedding photo album (sans pictures from the discarding couple), and dominos (from me, which I'd argue was one of the best gifts, supported by the fact that the recipient drew No. 1 and didn't trade it).
Sure, I grumbled a bit about my beanie babies, but they certainly grow on you. I took them to a bar later in the night, and they were a hit. (My friends and I kept introducing them to people, as if they were our friends, and I actually overheard one guy say to his friends, "Those girls are crazy.") See photo.
In line with this holiday-themed post, allow me to give a shout out for the Jews - and really any other religion besides Christianity. See, it's this time of year that all the non-Gentiles are forgotten. Christmas music serenades shoppers, trees light up public plazas, and the incessant jingling of the Salvation Army is peppered with "Merry Christmas"s. It's true - the majority of Americans celebrate the holiday, but let's not forget those who aren't quite as pumped about the birth of Christ.
I say with the caveat that my mom was Catholic, my dad Jewish, so we did both. In April, we had a Seder one night, and hunted for our Easter baskets another. In December, we lit the Hanukkah lights days before running downstairs to see what Santa left us. Sounds confusing, but I think I turned out alright....
Anyway, I just think we should all be more mindful of our non-Christian brethren as we anxiously await - and shop, cook and travel for - that special anniversary of Jesus' nativity. (Easy way to modify behavior: Try a "Happy Holidays" rather than the more traditional "Merry Christmas".)
I'd also like to request that we all try to temper the runaway consumerism that accompanies this season. I become nauseated hearing the TV personalities count down shopping days before the Big Day. There must be four Today's Show segments each morning dedicated to hot new tech toys this, what to get a hard-to-shop-for man that. Maybe because I don't have a steady job, and money's tight, or maybe 'cause I don't really dig on the JC, but I don't just like the idea of breaking the bank in the name of Jesus. Instead, all my friends are getting mixed CDs (yay! Surprise! Merry Christmas!) and I am hoping to focus the day on being home and eating and drinking with friends and family. That I can do for our man Christ.
Editor's note: I think I do this every year - rage against the consumerism of the holidays, always to no avail. One woman's rant does little to change the tide of American commodities-driven sentiment, but it still needs to be said.
Rather than allowing each person to open a gift and then survey the previously opened gifts before deciding to keep it or swap, the person had to make that dire decision before unwrapping a gift. So if you saw something you think you wanted, you had just blindly risk it all and yank it from your friend's fingers.
As Yankee Swaps go, I got screwed. I drew No. 2, and basically had little power to determine my gift receiving destiny. I tossed out conventional wisdom - and my own campaign to not acquire more things that take up space in my tiny apartment - and went for the biggest box. Inside were two beanie babies - one Pillsbury Doughboy and one bear with a "November" patch on his chest - and an artsy calendar I still haven't figured out how to work.
Other gifts included a Christmas CD from the New Kids on the Block (surely a classic), a starter log and a bag of chestnuts (complete with a soundtrack cued as she opened the package), a re-gifted wedding photo album (sans pictures from the discarding couple), and dominos (from me, which I'd argue was one of the best gifts, supported by the fact that the recipient drew No. 1 and didn't trade it).
Sure, I grumbled a bit about my beanie babies, but they certainly grow on you. I took them to a bar later in the night, and they were a hit. (My friends and I kept introducing them to people, as if they were our friends, and I actually overheard one guy say to his friends, "Those girls are crazy.") See photo.
In line with this holiday-themed post, allow me to give a shout out for the Jews - and really any other religion besides Christianity. See, it's this time of year that all the non-Gentiles are forgotten. Christmas music serenades shoppers, trees light up public plazas, and the incessant jingling of the Salvation Army is peppered with "Merry Christmas"s. It's true - the majority of Americans celebrate the holiday, but let's not forget those who aren't quite as pumped about the birth of Christ.
I say with the caveat that my mom was Catholic, my dad Jewish, so we did both. In April, we had a Seder one night, and hunted for our Easter baskets another. In December, we lit the Hanukkah lights days before running downstairs to see what Santa left us. Sounds confusing, but I think I turned out alright....
Anyway, I just think we should all be more mindful of our non-Christian brethren as we anxiously await - and shop, cook and travel for - that special anniversary of Jesus' nativity. (Easy way to modify behavior: Try a "Happy Holidays" rather than the more traditional "Merry Christmas".)
I'd also like to request that we all try to temper the runaway consumerism that accompanies this season. I become nauseated hearing the TV personalities count down shopping days before the Big Day. There must be four Today's Show segments each morning dedicated to hot new tech toys this, what to get a hard-to-shop-for man that. Maybe because I don't have a steady job, and money's tight, or maybe 'cause I don't really dig on the JC, but I don't just like the idea of breaking the bank in the name of Jesus. Instead, all my friends are getting mixed CDs (yay! Surprise! Merry Christmas!) and I am hoping to focus the day on being home and eating and drinking with friends and family. That I can do for our man Christ.
Editor's note: I think I do this every year - rage against the consumerism of the holidays, always to no avail. One woman's rant does little to change the tide of American commodities-driven sentiment, but it still needs to be said.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
a post a day - that might be pushing it
When I first started this whole blogging shenanigans, I had a few folks tell me I should blog every day, so that people would read it more regularly. That, and to keep it short, which is virtually impossible for me.
So, in my new-found effort to post daily (brought to you in part by sheer boredom and cold weather), here's what is on my mind tonight:
Sure it's probably pretty weak to start with the weather, but Chicago did just have something of a snowstorm tonight. Highlights include 6 to 9 inches (complete with a Snow Advisory, breaking it to folks, in case they haven't noticed, that we are getting a lot of snow) and a plane skidded off the runway at Midway. I know this because a Fox News Alert cut into the last minute and a half of the OC, which to me is a sin punishable by death. Sure, it's breaking news, but let's recap. It's snowing heavily, so a skidding plane might just not be that unusual. Had it been 77 degrees and sunny, this might be more of a news event. And sure, a few folks were injured, but seriously, does that warrant cutting off 'scenes from the next'? (If it turns out that people were seriously injured or killed, I will delete this post immediately and ... well, feel really, really bad. Call me insensitive or a bad news judge, but I am just a little miffed right now.)
addendum: Turns out, a 6-year-old boy was killed, so indeed this was a tragic news event. And yes, I feel bad for whining about the OC. Let's all move on.
addendum 2: Speaking of plane crashes and news judgement, what about the crash Tuesday that killed more than 100, mostly journalists, in Tehran, Iran? Nope, probably didn't hear much about that one. I'm just sayin'... That discussion might be for another day.
And my lovely alma mater's listserv was blowing up again today with the announcement of a new J-school Dean. The fuss was because the dean-to-be vowed to better integrate the marketing school and the journalism school, which threw many alumni into a tizzy. My two cents are that the reporting side needs to know more about the business of journalism, readership, trends. These things, the bread and butter of the marketing side, are crucial to the newspaper industry's success, and if the J-school can utilize some of the resources already there, I say do so. But know, that this is one of the best J-schools in the country, and the faculty and certainly the alumni will not stand for any line blurring between marketing and journalism. Take that as a personal threat, Mr. New Dean.
My fellow J-schoolers who did the global quarter this fall (which, if you are new here, I did in the spring, hence the birth of this blog), are packing up and coming home. I am shocked it's over for them so quickly and relieved that my friend in Caracas is making it out alive. Knock on wood.
I also just realized it's a little more than four weeks until I ship off to Honduras. (Yikes!) I have been practicing my Spanish - today I reviewed the past imperfect tense and entertainment vocabulary. (Jugaba el futbol. I used to play football.... That's right, I'm pretty much fluent already.) By the way, if anyone wants to come down to Honduras in February, I have built in a week to travel after the program.
Yep, that's all I've got. C'mon, folks. Not every post can be Pulitzer material. Post a day? Not likely.
So, in my new-found effort to post daily (brought to you in part by sheer boredom and cold weather), here's what is on my mind tonight:
Sure it's probably pretty weak to start with the weather, but Chicago did just have something of a snowstorm tonight. Highlights include 6 to 9 inches (complete with a Snow Advisory, breaking it to folks, in case they haven't noticed, that we are getting a lot of snow) and a plane skidded off the runway at Midway. I know this because a Fox News Alert cut into the last minute and a half of the OC, which to me is a sin punishable by death. Sure, it's breaking news, but let's recap. It's snowing heavily, so a skidding plane might just not be that unusual. Had it been 77 degrees and sunny, this might be more of a news event. And sure, a few folks were injured, but seriously, does that warrant cutting off 'scenes from the next'? (If it turns out that people were seriously injured or killed, I will delete this post immediately and ... well, feel really, really bad. Call me insensitive or a bad news judge, but I am just a little miffed right now.)
addendum: Turns out, a 6-year-old boy was killed, so indeed this was a tragic news event. And yes, I feel bad for whining about the OC. Let's all move on.
addendum 2: Speaking of plane crashes and news judgement, what about the crash Tuesday that killed more than 100, mostly journalists, in Tehran, Iran? Nope, probably didn't hear much about that one. I'm just sayin'... That discussion might be for another day.
And my lovely alma mater's listserv was blowing up again today with the announcement of a new J-school Dean. The fuss was because the dean-to-be vowed to better integrate the marketing school and the journalism school, which threw many alumni into a tizzy. My two cents are that the reporting side needs to know more about the business of journalism, readership, trends. These things, the bread and butter of the marketing side, are crucial to the newspaper industry's success, and if the J-school can utilize some of the resources already there, I say do so. But know, that this is one of the best J-schools in the country, and the faculty and certainly the alumni will not stand for any line blurring between marketing and journalism. Take that as a personal threat, Mr. New Dean.
My fellow J-schoolers who did the global quarter this fall (which, if you are new here, I did in the spring, hence the birth of this blog), are packing up and coming home. I am shocked it's over for them so quickly and relieved that my friend in Caracas is making it out alive. Knock on wood.
I also just realized it's a little more than four weeks until I ship off to Honduras. (Yikes!) I have been practicing my Spanish - today I reviewed the past imperfect tense and entertainment vocabulary. (Jugaba el futbol. I used to play football.... That's right, I'm pretty much fluent already.) By the way, if anyone wants to come down to Honduras in February, I have built in a week to travel after the program.
Yep, that's all I've got. C'mon, folks. Not every post can be Pulitzer material. Post a day? Not likely.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Dear Abby?
For some reason, I have always been that friend that others come to for advice, usually relationship advice. Perhaps because I will be unforgivingly honest. Perhaps I am a good listener, and take great pains to not bring my own feelings into the mix. Perhaps because I might be somewhat perceptive about the dynamics between the sexes, and have some experience with dating, both casual and serious. Either way, my girlfriends, my brother, they all come to me. In fact, a friend called me her own personal Dear Abby today.
In fact, my first pseudo-journalism job was an internship at this ultra-crappy, barely-known monthly paper in Boston called InSite. One day, I was telling my editor that I always seem to be doling out advice and that I should have my own column. And he bit. And so was born the short-lived "Miss Lonely Hearts."
The introductory column started with a lengthy (and somewhat embellished) explanation as to why you should listen to me. Here's an excerpt: "... chances are, if I haven't tried it myself, I have seen it all before. I have sweated the most popular guy, fell in love at first sight, had my heart broken into tiny pieces all over the kitchen floor after a candlelit dinner. I have dated the jerks, the drug users, the smart homely type, and the guys who haven't yet figured out how to work the telephone. And I am no stranger to sex. I have dabbled in techniques, threesomes, men and women, and perfected Cosmo's version of the Kama Sutra."
Yes, only some of that is true, like the kitchen break-up. I had cooked that sucker dinner too. But I digress.
The column goes on to dish about one girl who thinks she is a lesbian, a woman wondering how to be more outgoing, and one uncomfortable with the notion of vibrators. My editor titled each section cleverly, such as "Lez or fess (up)?" and "To pee or not to pee, that is the question," and "Boyfriend or psycho date from hell".
It was a lot of fun, but since no one read the rag, no one wrote in, and so it quickly fizzled. I would LOVE to be able to do a relationship column again one day.
Why am I writing about this? Not sure. All I know is that I continue to be a source of relationship advice, and I certainly enjoy it. So, if anyone reading needs advice, hit me. But chances are you have already called me, and I have said something along the lines of "If you want to see him, call him and ask him out." or "You only thought he was cute because he thought you were/you were drunk/his friends weren't cute." or "If he doesn't call, he's probably gay."
I'll end this post with an open letter to my hairdresser, who I saw today:
Dear Joel,
You are a genius. You possess magical skills, almost like the scissors are an extension of your perfectly artistic hands - like Edward Scissorhands but not creepy and spastic.
You love your job, and it shows. The best moment is when you are cutting my hair, and you stop for a second and this smile comes across your face that says "Man, I am so good at this, and by golly, I have really done it this time!"
You are open-minded and adventurous and always share my vision for what my hair should look like. You are also fun to chat with, and I always enjoy myself and feel beautiful and fierce when I leave.
Should I ever move from Chicago, which seems inevitable, I will miss you dearly and await the day when I am rich enough to fly you to wherever I am to do my hair.
See you in a few weeks for a touch-up on my bangs,
Sara
In fact, my first pseudo-journalism job was an internship at this ultra-crappy, barely-known monthly paper in Boston called InSite. One day, I was telling my editor that I always seem to be doling out advice and that I should have my own column. And he bit. And so was born the short-lived "Miss Lonely Hearts."
The introductory column started with a lengthy (and somewhat embellished) explanation as to why you should listen to me. Here's an excerpt: "... chances are, if I haven't tried it myself, I have seen it all before. I have sweated the most popular guy, fell in love at first sight, had my heart broken into tiny pieces all over the kitchen floor after a candlelit dinner. I have dated the jerks, the drug users, the smart homely type, and the guys who haven't yet figured out how to work the telephone. And I am no stranger to sex. I have dabbled in techniques, threesomes, men and women, and perfected Cosmo's version of the Kama Sutra."
Yes, only some of that is true, like the kitchen break-up. I had cooked that sucker dinner too. But I digress.
The column goes on to dish about one girl who thinks she is a lesbian, a woman wondering how to be more outgoing, and one uncomfortable with the notion of vibrators. My editor titled each section cleverly, such as "Lez or fess (up)?" and "To pee or not to pee, that is the question," and "Boyfriend or psycho date from hell".
It was a lot of fun, but since no one read the rag, no one wrote in, and so it quickly fizzled. I would LOVE to be able to do a relationship column again one day.
Why am I writing about this? Not sure. All I know is that I continue to be a source of relationship advice, and I certainly enjoy it. So, if anyone reading needs advice, hit me. But chances are you have already called me, and I have said something along the lines of "If you want to see him, call him and ask him out." or "You only thought he was cute because he thought you were/you were drunk/his friends weren't cute." or "If he doesn't call, he's probably gay."
I'll end this post with an open letter to my hairdresser, who I saw today:
Dear Joel,
You are a genius. You possess magical skills, almost like the scissors are an extension of your perfectly artistic hands - like Edward Scissorhands but not creepy and spastic.
You love your job, and it shows. The best moment is when you are cutting my hair, and you stop for a second and this smile comes across your face that says "Man, I am so good at this, and by golly, I have really done it this time!"
You are open-minded and adventurous and always share my vision for what my hair should look like. You are also fun to chat with, and I always enjoy myself and feel beautiful and fierce when I leave.
Should I ever move from Chicago, which seems inevitable, I will miss you dearly and await the day when I am rich enough to fly you to wherever I am to do my hair.
See you in a few weeks for a touch-up on my bangs,
Sara
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
how old is too old? ... and other random thoughts.
I spent much of my evening tonight workshopping my family relationships, or in other words, being a total babypants.
I'll spare you the too-personal details, which involve an expected reaction to my holiday plans that was replaced with something of a feeling-bruising reality of logistics-this and calendar-checking-that. Now, deep down I know I am always welcome home for the holidays. They want me there, and I can stay as long as I want.
But when it's been more than eight years since I have lived at home, the dynamic surely changes. I left for college, and literally the next day, the stuff I didn't take with me was packed up in the attic and my room was repainted and rented out (I lived above the garage my last year of high school). Which is fine. I moved. I didn't need a room.
But from that day on, my house became less and less my house and more my dad's (et al's) house. I don't live there. I visit. I didn't move back after college, and until a couple years ago, my visits were ultra-short. Plus, my situation is made a little more complicated by the fact that we are a blended family (I think that's today's euphemism, right?) and I continue to struggleto feel a part of the family in it's current form.
Regardless, it's my guess that everyone faces this as they get older, where you don't live at home but you don't have a home of your own yet. I am not married, no children, no home to buy a Christmas tree for or throw a New Year's party at. But, I don't live with my dad, et al.
So how old is too old to expect to go home - to the home where you grew up, that is - for two weeks? When are we supposed to be grown up enough that our friends travel to spend New Year's with you, rather than just meet at home where everyone is shacking up with their folks? How old is too old to dredge up family drama, demanding certain concessions, rather than simply getting over the fact that family is family and there is just nothing you can do to change them?
Similarly, how old is too old to put presents under a tree labeled "From: Santa" to be opened on Christmas morning, after digging though a stocking stuffed with little nic-nacs and the requisite orange?
And on a related note, is there such thing as a quarter-life (mid-20s) crisis? If so, I think I'm there... you know, where you don't know what you want to (continue to) do with your life, you don't have an established home, you feel all kinds of lost and a little lonely and a lot confused?
****
On an unrelated note, here's a little mindless, shallow, drivel, as promised:
-- I am crushed about Nick and Jessica's separation. For weeks, I have been ignoring the news of it, waiting for their respective spokespeople to come out and say, "Oh get off it! The couple has not and never will separate!" Well, that day never came. And now it's official. I feel more sad about that than I do about Brad and Jennifer breaking up. I mean, who could love Jessica and put up with her shit like Nick did; and what does he have if he doesn't have her - not a career, that's for sure.
-- Much like what happened with my feelings toward Jessica Simpson, my hatred for Lindsay Lohan was so intense that it circled around and has morphed into like. Would one call that "liketred" like hatred? Just wondering.
-- As much as I like Maureen Dowd and think she is a clever writer and a very beautiful and sexy woman to boot, she is terrible at interviews. Painful. She is awkward and tense and kind of cold. But I still like her.
-- The debate about whether blondes or brunettes have more fun is ridiculous. I know you are asking, do people give a shit? and Who is still debating this? Good questions, yes. But somewhat in jest, my friend CK and I struck up this debate this weekend after she dyed her hair back to brown. I argue she wasn't a full blonde (mainly highlights) to start with, but for the sake of the social experiment, we overlooked that. The verdict (according to just my observation): she had equal fun. Why? Because she is fun and enjoys life. Just as I do. As a brunette. Case closed. And when it comes to men's preferences, my guess is it's like breast size: They may say they have a preference, but when it comes down to brass tacks, they couldn't care less.
-- I was assigned a story today loosely based on a one of those corporate self help books about habits of effective people. Does anyone actually read those books (besides me, which will have to happen for the sake of reporting)? Is it passed around Corporate America with a Post-It note reading "Check this out. Riveting stuff - I wouldn't be a CEO without it!"?
I'll spare you the too-personal details, which involve an expected reaction to my holiday plans that was replaced with something of a feeling-bruising reality of logistics-this and calendar-checking-that. Now, deep down I know I am always welcome home for the holidays. They want me there, and I can stay as long as I want.
But when it's been more than eight years since I have lived at home, the dynamic surely changes. I left for college, and literally the next day, the stuff I didn't take with me was packed up in the attic and my room was repainted and rented out (I lived above the garage my last year of high school). Which is fine. I moved. I didn't need a room.
But from that day on, my house became less and less my house and more my dad's (et al's) house. I don't live there. I visit. I didn't move back after college, and until a couple years ago, my visits were ultra-short. Plus, my situation is made a little more complicated by the fact that we are a blended family (I think that's today's euphemism, right?) and I continue to struggleto feel a part of the family in it's current form.
Regardless, it's my guess that everyone faces this as they get older, where you don't live at home but you don't have a home of your own yet. I am not married, no children, no home to buy a Christmas tree for or throw a New Year's party at. But, I don't live with my dad, et al.
So how old is too old to expect to go home - to the home where you grew up, that is - for two weeks? When are we supposed to be grown up enough that our friends travel to spend New Year's with you, rather than just meet at home where everyone is shacking up with their folks? How old is too old to dredge up family drama, demanding certain concessions, rather than simply getting over the fact that family is family and there is just nothing you can do to change them?
Similarly, how old is too old to put presents under a tree labeled "From: Santa" to be opened on Christmas morning, after digging though a stocking stuffed with little nic-nacs and the requisite orange?
And on a related note, is there such thing as a quarter-life (mid-20s) crisis? If so, I think I'm there... you know, where you don't know what you want to (continue to) do with your life, you don't have an established home, you feel all kinds of lost and a little lonely and a lot confused?
****
On an unrelated note, here's a little mindless, shallow, drivel, as promised:
-- I am crushed about Nick and Jessica's separation. For weeks, I have been ignoring the news of it, waiting for their respective spokespeople to come out and say, "Oh get off it! The couple has not and never will separate!" Well, that day never came. And now it's official. I feel more sad about that than I do about Brad and Jennifer breaking up. I mean, who could love Jessica and put up with her shit like Nick did; and what does he have if he doesn't have her - not a career, that's for sure.
-- Much like what happened with my feelings toward Jessica Simpson, my hatred for Lindsay Lohan was so intense that it circled around and has morphed into like. Would one call that "liketred" like hatred? Just wondering.
-- As much as I like Maureen Dowd and think she is a clever writer and a very beautiful and sexy woman to boot, she is terrible at interviews. Painful. She is awkward and tense and kind of cold. But I still like her.
-- The debate about whether blondes or brunettes have more fun is ridiculous. I know you are asking, do people give a shit? and Who is still debating this? Good questions, yes. But somewhat in jest, my friend CK and I struck up this debate this weekend after she dyed her hair back to brown. I argue she wasn't a full blonde (mainly highlights) to start with, but for the sake of the social experiment, we overlooked that. The verdict (according to just my observation): she had equal fun. Why? Because she is fun and enjoys life. Just as I do. As a brunette. Case closed. And when it comes to men's preferences, my guess is it's like breast size: They may say they have a preference, but when it comes down to brass tacks, they couldn't care less.
-- I was assigned a story today loosely based on a one of those corporate self help books about habits of effective people. Does anyone actually read those books (besides me, which will have to happen for the sake of reporting)? Is it passed around Corporate America with a Post-It note reading "Check this out. Riveting stuff - I wouldn't be a CEO without it!"?
Saturday, December 03, 2005
a flashback
My brother called me tonight and said he came across the memoir I wrote for an intro communications class in college. It's about our mother. I wrote it seven years ago, which is hard to believe. He suggested I post the story on my blog, since it really only exists as the paper copy he found and the saved Word document on an old disc I dug up just now. And I guess sometimes, it feels like if it's not on the Internet, it doesn't exist.... Anyway, I thought that to be a good idea.
Now, I know that I promised one of my loyal readers that I would dedicate at least one post to sheer smut, pop culture, mindless drivel - you know, the kind of writing that gets people to comment. Well, that'll be next, but the timing seemed right to post this memoir.
A couple words of caution, should you choose to continue: It's long. It's kind of sad. And it does reference woman stuff. If you don't want to read it and get all down and personal, that's OK. Just wait a bit and I'll post mindless drivel. (Oh and please remember I wrote this in 1998, which the help of an amazing professor who I often credit for my entering journalism, since she was the one - after working with me on this piece - that I should consider it. Anyway, here it is.
It is a sticky Alabama afternoon. I have this heavy feeling in my stomach, and I can feel my heart thumping loudly in my chest. What am I going to do now? I have already cleaned my entire room, watched TV until my eyes were sore, and even thought about picking up Kidnapped. I am supposed to have it read for school in the fall, but the picture of the ship on the front just looks so boring. And the letters are so small.
My hand pushes the pen in circles that curl around into my name on the paper. It looks so elegant. I can hear the girls next door squealing and laughing in their playhouse with the bright teal cloth roof that peaks over our fence in the backyard. What a hideous color green next to the trees.
I force up the window stiff from layers of dried paint and catch a slight breeze, my mind wandering to the days when I could look around me and smile, not a care in the world.
***
The breeze tickled my face carrying with it the sweet smell of ripe fig trees and hints of my mother's clean shampoo. It was the smell of a childhood summer afternoon, when you worried the sun might never set and surrender the unrelenting heat of the day.
"And the season's, they go round and round," my mother sang softly. It was always the same song, always my favorite: a song that found a smile through tears and battled off the monsters in my nightmares.
"I know you aren't going to let me sing all by myself, sweet pea," she smiled peacefully, but I always like it best when she sings it alone. I tugged impatiently at my overalls while she licked her thumb and instinctively wiped the remains of a chocolate popsicle from my cheek.
"Shhh, do ya hear it?" I nudged my mother's knee as I leaned forward to see the big Maxx bus coming down the road. As it passed, I threw out a toothy smile and the two of us waved enthusiastically.
These afternoons had become a ritual for my mother and me. As five o'clock approached, we forgot the world around us and retreated to the front steps of the house. Here under the deep blue sky, we would sit together humming songs, sharing laughter and anticipating the daily wave from the bus driver, whom I know awaited our smiles. The five o'clock bus meant my dad's silver Gremlin would soon follow.
***
I can't really concentrate, but then, I am not sure what I need to be concentrating on. Anything really. Anything to keep my mind busy. It is so hot outside. It would seem like torture to be out there, yet this house doesn't offer much refuge either. It is so quiet, maybe I will put some music on, but I don't even know what I want to listen to. My fingers drum on the desk as I look out the window, amazed at how many things that have already happened this summer. And it is not even August.
***
It was late in the day when I finally rolled myself out of bed. The house was empty and I lay in the warm bed, avoiding the responsibilities of the day. My mom had been in the hospital for a few days so Dad had taken over the household duties lately, struggling to maintain the equilibrium of the family for my brother and me.
He tried his luck in the kitchen, relying on frozen fish sticks and bagged mixed veggies, a far cry from my mother's creative meals. On top of his demanding position at the hospital, his days were compounded with carpooling, grocery shopping and picking up his shirts from the cleaners.
Still in my underwear with no plans of interrupting my laziness, I shuffled downstairs to the kitchen for the bowl of Rice Krispies. I stopped by the bathroom on my way to occupying my lanky, eleven-year-old body with television until someone came home, filling me in on my own tasks for the day before we went to visit Mom.
I sat down on the toilet and caught a glimpse of something foreign: a small dark spot in the middle of my panties. I blinked, took a deep breath and looked closer, still there. A wave of panic ran through my body. I went directly to the top shelf of the cabinet where I had bashfully stashed a box of maxi pads my mom gave me months before with the brief you'll-be-a-woman-soon talk.
After sticking one to my panties, I stood up, feeling the unfamiliar pillow between my legs. What the hell do I do now? With my mom unreachable in the hospital, I had no choice but to page my dad.
"Uh...Dad, I... um, I think I just started my period," I mumbled, my face hot with the mortification of saying these words to my dad, who had always seemed so distant to the development of his daughter.
"What… you, oh, wow. Well," he hesitated, swallowing a nervous chuckle and searching for the appropriate words. I could almost picture him on the other end of the line, overwhelmed with my call. "Congratulations! Do you know what to do?"
"Yeah, dad. I just want to go see Mom." I fiddled with the phone cord, my fingers trembling. Congratulations? God, what a nightmare.
"OK, I'll be home soon," he said. I hung up the phone and sat there with a thickness in my pants, nervous of the confrontation with my dad and a little angry that my mother wasn't in the next room for this.
***
I look around my room. Something to do. I have always had the same room, with the same view, even arranged the same way, with my huge queen size bed jutting out from the wall and taking up most of the floor space. My mom used to want to put a lace canopy on the long wooden posts, and I dreaded the idea. She also used to want so desperately to braid my hair, but I felt like Pippy Longstocking and her tugging at my hair always made me cry. So she promised to pay me a dollar each time I let her do it, saying I looked like her little princess. I guess a dollar was a lot to me then, but not enough endure the hair braiding.
Mornings carried a dance of familiarity for my mother and me. My father would welcome in my day with a tap on the door and a good-morning whisper, my cue to tiptoe into their bedroom. I would crawl into the tall bed and sling my eight-year-old body on top of my mother, her soft, round stomach cushioning me. I laid my head on her warm chest and listened to her breathing while she watched the morning news. Her smooth fingers combed through my hair. I could smell the coffee on her breath as she asked if I had sweet dreams the night before. I would lie there in the ritualistic comfort of my mother until my dad would call from the bathroom where he fixed his tie and brushed his teeth, reminding me to get dressed for school.
As the cancer slowly takes pieces of my mother from me, my visits to her bedroom grow infrequent. The warm, inviting feel of the room was replaced with a thick air of sickness. The room smells stale and lifeless, as if the slices of sunlight from the windows can't compensate for the shadows of the disease.
The bed, which hasn't been made for weeks, reminds me of the chaos of the moment. Half-read books and reading glasses are hidden among the plastic pill bottles, littering the bedside table. The words of Adrienne Rich and Anne Sexton are lost to the specific dosage demands of each medication. It is like this room doesn't belong to the house and was added on as a sinking reminder that something was just not right. The table against the wall holds old pictures, one of my parents' wedding 21 years before, the only time in his life that my dad shaved off his beard, smiling big next to my mother in her bravely short dress. The walls, painted a soft rose color to match the flowers on the comforter, doesn't breathe the life the house had always known.
I wander downstairs to the kitchen that carries a heavy silence, empty of her bellowing laughter while she talked on the phone and her orders to us to pick up our shoes from the bottom of the stairs. On the wall behind the stove she has painted a delicate wreath of flowers on the tiles, adding to the room her creativity that seem to touch every corner of the house.
Outside of the kitchen window I can see her herb garden, where rosemary, parsley and thyme were once pampered now remain thick with neglect. The garden, the teacup collection, the endless volumes of poetry, all linger while their creator lies in bed, slowly giving up. But as long as I avoid the bedroom, I can keep pretending that it is all a dream, and she will wake up one morning to coffee and the morning news and smile to her new health.
I am shaken from my thoughts as I hear my mother calling me into the bedroom where she is reading, making notes in the margins like any devoted writer does. My stomach feels even heavier as my feet drag me slowly upstairs, taking my time to hit every step evenly. She sits in the bed in her formless bright orange and pink nightgown, which she called a "moo moo". Seeing her in this blob of loud colors always brings a smile to my face.
"Oh sweet pea, I have so many things I want to say to you," she looks at me with her head tilted to the side and her eyebrows raised in concern.
She had given up on coloring her once-black hair and let the gray streaks frame her plump face, making her look so beautiful and wise. Her dark eyes are deep with experience, and her fingers, carrying engagement and wedding rings, are wrinkled with time. I fear I won't recognize her, as I look into her eyes, hazy with distance as it pulls her away. What if I can't see her strength and beauty I know, and that I only catch glimpses of when I look at myself in the mirror? I curl up into a ball and snuggle close to her, feeling her smooth skin that now drapes limply on her bones brush across my face. All I can do was shake my head, the tears flowing uncontrollably before either of us can speak.
"Sara, I know this is hard," she whispers, her thumb gently stroking my eyebrow, the way she did when she sang me to sleep. "And the painted ponies go up and downÂ…" she would sing. My body shakes with anger and resentment. I close my eyes and imagine myself eight years old again, cuddling with my mother as we received the day.
"You have to be strong for your father and brother, Sara," she says softly.
This isn't how it is all supposed to happen. We have such big plans. She had promised to take me out to lunch as soon as she was well to celebrate my untimely first period. This is my mother who was supposed to take me bra shopping, giggle about my first boyfriend, and be there for my first child.
I sit up and looked at her. In front of me is the strongest woman I have ever known, and I realize that was what I was to become. All of the things she had ever told me, all the moments I took for granted, all the times we were cheated of seem to come together at once in her eyes.
"You know that you have to keep going, and become the most beautiful woman you can, the woman I have taught you to be." I shake my head. I am not even 12.
Now, I know that I promised one of my loyal readers that I would dedicate at least one post to sheer smut, pop culture, mindless drivel - you know, the kind of writing that gets people to comment. Well, that'll be next, but the timing seemed right to post this memoir.
A couple words of caution, should you choose to continue: It's long. It's kind of sad. And it does reference woman stuff. If you don't want to read it and get all down and personal, that's OK. Just wait a bit and I'll post mindless drivel. (Oh and please remember I wrote this in 1998, which the help of an amazing professor who I often credit for my entering journalism, since she was the one - after working with me on this piece - that I should consider it. Anyway, here it is.
It is a sticky Alabama afternoon. I have this heavy feeling in my stomach, and I can feel my heart thumping loudly in my chest. What am I going to do now? I have already cleaned my entire room, watched TV until my eyes were sore, and even thought about picking up Kidnapped. I am supposed to have it read for school in the fall, but the picture of the ship on the front just looks so boring. And the letters are so small.
My hand pushes the pen in circles that curl around into my name on the paper. It looks so elegant. I can hear the girls next door squealing and laughing in their playhouse with the bright teal cloth roof that peaks over our fence in the backyard. What a hideous color green next to the trees.
I force up the window stiff from layers of dried paint and catch a slight breeze, my mind wandering to the days when I could look around me and smile, not a care in the world.
***
The breeze tickled my face carrying with it the sweet smell of ripe fig trees and hints of my mother's clean shampoo. It was the smell of a childhood summer afternoon, when you worried the sun might never set and surrender the unrelenting heat of the day.
"And the season's, they go round and round," my mother sang softly. It was always the same song, always my favorite: a song that found a smile through tears and battled off the monsters in my nightmares.
"I know you aren't going to let me sing all by myself, sweet pea," she smiled peacefully, but I always like it best when she sings it alone. I tugged impatiently at my overalls while she licked her thumb and instinctively wiped the remains of a chocolate popsicle from my cheek.
"Shhh, do ya hear it?" I nudged my mother's knee as I leaned forward to see the big Maxx bus coming down the road. As it passed, I threw out a toothy smile and the two of us waved enthusiastically.
These afternoons had become a ritual for my mother and me. As five o'clock approached, we forgot the world around us and retreated to the front steps of the house. Here under the deep blue sky, we would sit together humming songs, sharing laughter and anticipating the daily wave from the bus driver, whom I know awaited our smiles. The five o'clock bus meant my dad's silver Gremlin would soon follow.
***
I can't really concentrate, but then, I am not sure what I need to be concentrating on. Anything really. Anything to keep my mind busy. It is so hot outside. It would seem like torture to be out there, yet this house doesn't offer much refuge either. It is so quiet, maybe I will put some music on, but I don't even know what I want to listen to. My fingers drum on the desk as I look out the window, amazed at how many things that have already happened this summer. And it is not even August.
***
It was late in the day when I finally rolled myself out of bed. The house was empty and I lay in the warm bed, avoiding the responsibilities of the day. My mom had been in the hospital for a few days so Dad had taken over the household duties lately, struggling to maintain the equilibrium of the family for my brother and me.
He tried his luck in the kitchen, relying on frozen fish sticks and bagged mixed veggies, a far cry from my mother's creative meals. On top of his demanding position at the hospital, his days were compounded with carpooling, grocery shopping and picking up his shirts from the cleaners.
Still in my underwear with no plans of interrupting my laziness, I shuffled downstairs to the kitchen for the bowl of Rice Krispies. I stopped by the bathroom on my way to occupying my lanky, eleven-year-old body with television until someone came home, filling me in on my own tasks for the day before we went to visit Mom.
I sat down on the toilet and caught a glimpse of something foreign: a small dark spot in the middle of my panties. I blinked, took a deep breath and looked closer, still there. A wave of panic ran through my body. I went directly to the top shelf of the cabinet where I had bashfully stashed a box of maxi pads my mom gave me months before with the brief you'll-be-a-woman-soon talk.
After sticking one to my panties, I stood up, feeling the unfamiliar pillow between my legs. What the hell do I do now? With my mom unreachable in the hospital, I had no choice but to page my dad.
"Uh...Dad, I... um, I think I just started my period," I mumbled, my face hot with the mortification of saying these words to my dad, who had always seemed so distant to the development of his daughter.
"What… you, oh, wow. Well," he hesitated, swallowing a nervous chuckle and searching for the appropriate words. I could almost picture him on the other end of the line, overwhelmed with my call. "Congratulations! Do you know what to do?"
"Yeah, dad. I just want to go see Mom." I fiddled with the phone cord, my fingers trembling. Congratulations? God, what a nightmare.
"OK, I'll be home soon," he said. I hung up the phone and sat there with a thickness in my pants, nervous of the confrontation with my dad and a little angry that my mother wasn't in the next room for this.
***
I look around my room. Something to do. I have always had the same room, with the same view, even arranged the same way, with my huge queen size bed jutting out from the wall and taking up most of the floor space. My mom used to want to put a lace canopy on the long wooden posts, and I dreaded the idea. She also used to want so desperately to braid my hair, but I felt like Pippy Longstocking and her tugging at my hair always made me cry. So she promised to pay me a dollar each time I let her do it, saying I looked like her little princess. I guess a dollar was a lot to me then, but not enough endure the hair braiding.
Mornings carried a dance of familiarity for my mother and me. My father would welcome in my day with a tap on the door and a good-morning whisper, my cue to tiptoe into their bedroom. I would crawl into the tall bed and sling my eight-year-old body on top of my mother, her soft, round stomach cushioning me. I laid my head on her warm chest and listened to her breathing while she watched the morning news. Her smooth fingers combed through my hair. I could smell the coffee on her breath as she asked if I had sweet dreams the night before. I would lie there in the ritualistic comfort of my mother until my dad would call from the bathroom where he fixed his tie and brushed his teeth, reminding me to get dressed for school.
As the cancer slowly takes pieces of my mother from me, my visits to her bedroom grow infrequent. The warm, inviting feel of the room was replaced with a thick air of sickness. The room smells stale and lifeless, as if the slices of sunlight from the windows can't compensate for the shadows of the disease.
The bed, which hasn't been made for weeks, reminds me of the chaos of the moment. Half-read books and reading glasses are hidden among the plastic pill bottles, littering the bedside table. The words of Adrienne Rich and Anne Sexton are lost to the specific dosage demands of each medication. It is like this room doesn't belong to the house and was added on as a sinking reminder that something was just not right. The table against the wall holds old pictures, one of my parents' wedding 21 years before, the only time in his life that my dad shaved off his beard, smiling big next to my mother in her bravely short dress. The walls, painted a soft rose color to match the flowers on the comforter, doesn't breathe the life the house had always known.
I wander downstairs to the kitchen that carries a heavy silence, empty of her bellowing laughter while she talked on the phone and her orders to us to pick up our shoes from the bottom of the stairs. On the wall behind the stove she has painted a delicate wreath of flowers on the tiles, adding to the room her creativity that seem to touch every corner of the house.
Outside of the kitchen window I can see her herb garden, where rosemary, parsley and thyme were once pampered now remain thick with neglect. The garden, the teacup collection, the endless volumes of poetry, all linger while their creator lies in bed, slowly giving up. But as long as I avoid the bedroom, I can keep pretending that it is all a dream, and she will wake up one morning to coffee and the morning news and smile to her new health.
I am shaken from my thoughts as I hear my mother calling me into the bedroom where she is reading, making notes in the margins like any devoted writer does. My stomach feels even heavier as my feet drag me slowly upstairs, taking my time to hit every step evenly. She sits in the bed in her formless bright orange and pink nightgown, which she called a "moo moo". Seeing her in this blob of loud colors always brings a smile to my face.
"Oh sweet pea, I have so many things I want to say to you," she looks at me with her head tilted to the side and her eyebrows raised in concern.
She had given up on coloring her once-black hair and let the gray streaks frame her plump face, making her look so beautiful and wise. Her dark eyes are deep with experience, and her fingers, carrying engagement and wedding rings, are wrinkled with time. I fear I won't recognize her, as I look into her eyes, hazy with distance as it pulls her away. What if I can't see her strength and beauty I know, and that I only catch glimpses of when I look at myself in the mirror? I curl up into a ball and snuggle close to her, feeling her smooth skin that now drapes limply on her bones brush across my face. All I can do was shake my head, the tears flowing uncontrollably before either of us can speak.
"Sara, I know this is hard," she whispers, her thumb gently stroking my eyebrow, the way she did when she sang me to sleep. "And the painted ponies go up and downÂ…" she would sing. My body shakes with anger and resentment. I close my eyes and imagine myself eight years old again, cuddling with my mother as we received the day.
"You have to be strong for your father and brother, Sara," she says softly.
This isn't how it is all supposed to happen. We have such big plans. She had promised to take me out to lunch as soon as she was well to celebrate my untimely first period. This is my mother who was supposed to take me bra shopping, giggle about my first boyfriend, and be there for my first child.
I sit up and looked at her. In front of me is the strongest woman I have ever known, and I realize that was what I was to become. All of the things she had ever told me, all the moments I took for granted, all the times we were cheated of seem to come together at once in her eyes.
"You know that you have to keep going, and become the most beautiful woman you can, the woman I have taught you to be." I shake my head. I am not even 12.
Monday, November 28, 2005
I don't really have anything good to report...
... but I figured I'd write since it's been a few days.
The food coma of Thanksgiving has worn off, but I still have the general sluggishness of vacation. (I can hear you nay-sayers snickering, "aren't you on permanent vacation?" and "Oh yea, you needed a break from doing nothing all day." Well, I won't defend myself here with the "hey I work plenty" or "freelancing is hard!" So there.)
But the holiday was nice. I managed to eat my weight in turkey and apple pie, read two books cover to cover, get minimal exercise in the form of a walk by the ocean, play dominoes until my fingers calloused, stay indoors for an entire day - until about 10 p.m. when we drove to town to go to a bar. Good times, as always.
We also participated in what is known as the Yankee Swap, which I am sure my Southern readers - or really maybe all readers outside of the Northeast, or New Hampshire, or this one particular family who may have made it up for all I know - will not have heard of before. (And I find it funny that a bunch of Yankees are playing it, and it's still called Yankee Swap.) See, each person brings a gift - usually something they dug out of the closet, say, an old kite, already-read books, an old breadmaker; or sometimes strange and funny things, like a commando set complete with face paint, goggles and a camo hat, or a pencil box full of rocks, one labeled 'Spac Station.' (no kidding, that was an offering this year, typo and all). Each gift is wrapped - often in deceiving packaging - and placed in a pile.
Then each person draws a number from a hat, and starting from No. 1, each person picks a present and opens it. You can choose to keep it, or trade it for any gift opened before yours, and No. 1 gets the last pick after all are opened. So, perhaps you could say it's lucky to draw No. 1, and unlucky if you're No. 23... if you were even to use the concept of luck here.
Well, folks don't usually walk away with anything of value to their lives or others. Sometimes, you can snag something kitchy (like the leather crocodile doctor's bag I walked away with one year), something amusing (Mr. Potato Head was a hit this year) or something you can re-gift to someone outside of the family or rewrap for next year's swap (like the picnic backpack chock full of glasses, dishware and napkins, or the Assam - assman, to us - Teapot that will no doubt make some woman pleased this Christmas).
Let's see... This year, I wrapped a stack of books, some I had read and enjoyed, and one I didn't read and heard was crappy. And, after selecting No. 11 and losing the teapot in a trade, I walked away with a hardcover book called The Bird Watching Life Journal. Riiiight... I managed to leave it behind, as many family members sneakily do . (Picture, the host making sure each guest has left with his or her respective Yankee Swap gift, often wrestling it into reluctant hands or hiding it among washed out dishware or packed up leftovers.)
So goes the Yankee Swap. It's rowdy and fun, and once you understand the point, you won't get disappointed that you didn't walk away with something you'll use or that the three and a half minutes you had with that breadmaker, tea pot or Mr. Potato Head is really all that you were meant to have. That's how they do it in the Northeast.
The food coma of Thanksgiving has worn off, but I still have the general sluggishness of vacation. (I can hear you nay-sayers snickering, "aren't you on permanent vacation?" and "Oh yea, you needed a break from doing nothing all day." Well, I won't defend myself here with the "hey I work plenty" or "freelancing is hard!" So there.)
But the holiday was nice. I managed to eat my weight in turkey and apple pie, read two books cover to cover, get minimal exercise in the form of a walk by the ocean, play dominoes until my fingers calloused, stay indoors for an entire day - until about 10 p.m. when we drove to town to go to a bar. Good times, as always.
We also participated in what is known as the Yankee Swap, which I am sure my Southern readers - or really maybe all readers outside of the Northeast, or New Hampshire, or this one particular family who may have made it up for all I know - will not have heard of before. (And I find it funny that a bunch of Yankees are playing it, and it's still called Yankee Swap.) See, each person brings a gift - usually something they dug out of the closet, say, an old kite, already-read books, an old breadmaker; or sometimes strange and funny things, like a commando set complete with face paint, goggles and a camo hat, or a pencil box full of rocks, one labeled 'Spac Station.' (no kidding, that was an offering this year, typo and all). Each gift is wrapped - often in deceiving packaging - and placed in a pile.
Then each person draws a number from a hat, and starting from No. 1, each person picks a present and opens it. You can choose to keep it, or trade it for any gift opened before yours, and No. 1 gets the last pick after all are opened. So, perhaps you could say it's lucky to draw No. 1, and unlucky if you're No. 23... if you were even to use the concept of luck here.
Well, folks don't usually walk away with anything of value to their lives or others. Sometimes, you can snag something kitchy (like the leather crocodile doctor's bag I walked away with one year), something amusing (Mr. Potato Head was a hit this year) or something you can re-gift to someone outside of the family or rewrap for next year's swap (like the picnic backpack chock full of glasses, dishware and napkins, or the Assam - assman, to us - Teapot that will no doubt make some woman pleased this Christmas).
Let's see... This year, I wrapped a stack of books, some I had read and enjoyed, and one I didn't read and heard was crappy. And, after selecting No. 11 and losing the teapot in a trade, I walked away with a hardcover book called The Bird Watching Life Journal. Riiiight... I managed to leave it behind, as many family members sneakily do . (Picture, the host making sure each guest has left with his or her respective Yankee Swap gift, often wrestling it into reluctant hands or hiding it among washed out dishware or packed up leftovers.)
So goes the Yankee Swap. It's rowdy and fun, and once you understand the point, you won't get disappointed that you didn't walk away with something you'll use or that the three and a half minutes you had with that breadmaker, tea pot or Mr. Potato Head is really all that you were meant to have. That's how they do it in the Northeast.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
insomnia
I used to enjoy sleep. It used to be easy, a no-brainer. Night would come, I'd be tired, I'd lay down and before I knew it, it was morning again. I guess I took it for granted, thinking it would always be there, dreams and all. I used to be able to fall asleep in any conditions, on any surface, with any background noise, save for maybe a screaming child or heavy construction.
Now, not so much. For the past several months... oh maybe a year... sleep has not been so easy. I am now a light sleeper, I wake up early regardless of what time I finally drift off, and I just don't enjoy it like I used to. In fact, I have become such a bad sleeper, that sometimes I dread it. It makes me a tinge nervous knowing I get my hopes up to enjoy the much-needed upcoming rest but that I will inevitably be disappointed.
The other night, I woke up at about 4 in the morning to a soft rustling, almost clicking, sound. I could have sworn it was the sound of someone typing, clack-clack-clacking away on a laptop. I look around, and as expected, there was no such person typing away on my computer. I wandered to the cracked window, thinking I would see my neighbor - whose window is uncomfortably close - pounding away on a keyboard perched close to their open window. As I leaned toward the window, I realized the sound was the rustling of my houseplant's leaves, blowing gently in the fan. Leaves. That's what woke me up.
So a couple nights ago, I went to sleep exhausted and woke up not two hours later to the sound of my BF snoring. (In his defense, snoring might be a strong word. He could have been just breathing, simply sustaining life, and it woke me up.) Five and a half hours later, I was still awake, crazed from exhaustion and frustration. I had read 150 pages of my book, listened to Gregory Isaacs in my headphones three times over, and even tried laying still and envisioning every muscle relaxing as they do in yoga class. At about 7:30 a.m., I finally fell asleep, but then woke automatically a couple hours later.
The next night, I went to sleep again, nervous but hopeful. A couple hours later, I woke up alone, only to discover said BF was sleeping on the floor in the next room. I saw him there and for one second, felt guilt and relief. Of course I felt extremely bad that he was sleeping on the floor, sacrificing his comfort to ensure there were very few distractions to wake me from my shallow slumber. But for a second I debated not waking him up, thinking how nice it would be to sleep in a near-silent warm room. My guilt won, and I nudged him, but he insisted he was comfortable and that I just go back to bed. I did. I slept fine, not great, still waking up every couple hours just for the hell of it.
I am not sure what it will take to regain the power over sleep. I've tried writing lists of the things that keep me up, playing music, exercising heavily that day so that I am dead tired. Nothing works. I am hoping it's a phase....
Now, not so much. For the past several months... oh maybe a year... sleep has not been so easy. I am now a light sleeper, I wake up early regardless of what time I finally drift off, and I just don't enjoy it like I used to. In fact, I have become such a bad sleeper, that sometimes I dread it. It makes me a tinge nervous knowing I get my hopes up to enjoy the much-needed upcoming rest but that I will inevitably be disappointed.
The other night, I woke up at about 4 in the morning to a soft rustling, almost clicking, sound. I could have sworn it was the sound of someone typing, clack-clack-clacking away on a laptop. I look around, and as expected, there was no such person typing away on my computer. I wandered to the cracked window, thinking I would see my neighbor - whose window is uncomfortably close - pounding away on a keyboard perched close to their open window. As I leaned toward the window, I realized the sound was the rustling of my houseplant's leaves, blowing gently in the fan. Leaves. That's what woke me up.
So a couple nights ago, I went to sleep exhausted and woke up not two hours later to the sound of my BF snoring. (In his defense, snoring might be a strong word. He could have been just breathing, simply sustaining life, and it woke me up.) Five and a half hours later, I was still awake, crazed from exhaustion and frustration. I had read 150 pages of my book, listened to Gregory Isaacs in my headphones three times over, and even tried laying still and envisioning every muscle relaxing as they do in yoga class. At about 7:30 a.m., I finally fell asleep, but then woke automatically a couple hours later.
The next night, I went to sleep again, nervous but hopeful. A couple hours later, I woke up alone, only to discover said BF was sleeping on the floor in the next room. I saw him there and for one second, felt guilt and relief. Of course I felt extremely bad that he was sleeping on the floor, sacrificing his comfort to ensure there were very few distractions to wake me from my shallow slumber. But for a second I debated not waking him up, thinking how nice it would be to sleep in a near-silent warm room. My guilt won, and I nudged him, but he insisted he was comfortable and that I just go back to bed. I did. I slept fine, not great, still waking up every couple hours just for the hell of it.
I am not sure what it will take to regain the power over sleep. I've tried writing lists of the things that keep me up, playing music, exercising heavily that day so that I am dead tired. Nothing works. I am hoping it's a phase....
Friday, November 18, 2005
wining and dining
I went to meet two friends of mine from the global Paris seminar for dinner last night - we just started a tradition to meet every week or so in a new French restaurant, since our friendship grew from a love of Paris and of food. So when I get there, one friend was already seated and had ordered the wine.
Server: Can I get you something to drink, a glass of wine?
Me: Sure. (to friend) Hey, what are you drinking?
Friend 1: Bordeaux.
Me: Oh... hmmm... I'll just have a glass of Cabernet. Thank you.
Server (in painfully humorless you-must-be-an-idiot tone): Yep. That would be what she is having.
Me (wounded and a little mad): I apologize. I guess I know nothing about wine, and by your tone, that must have been a really stupid thing to say. I didn't realize Bordeaux and Cabernet were the same thing. Can you explain that to me?
Server (rambling, still humorless): Yes, something about grapes and regions and blends of this and that and yadda yadda yadda and clearly I don't really know what I am talking about but I like to make people feel stupid.
Right. The conversation went something like that. We ordered a bottle, and once she walked away I looked on the back label: 20 percent Cab, 70 percent Merlot and therefore 100 percent Bordeaux. Ok, friend, I may not fully understand, but I do know that 20 percent does not a Cabernet make. Maybe you could pass it off as a Merlot. I felt vindicated that I was not entirely wrong, and still annoyed at our crappy service. (But of course the exchange was fodder for laughs through the entire dinner: Thanks, I don't eat fish, so I'll have the grilled salmon for my entree. Or: No, thank you I don't like apples - I'll just have the apple tart for dessert.)
After dinner, I promptly called my BF, who actually does know a thing or two about wine and won't make you feel like an ass for not knowing, who explained to me that in fact, our server was a humorless ignoramous. See, allegedly French wine isn't like the wine we're used to (I personally prefer the Australian wines) - Merlot, Cabernet, Chardonnay - but in fact it's all blended. Chances are we won't get a 100 percent Cabernet, but a mix, and instead the server should have explained this and said something to the effect of, "The Bordeaux is a Cab-Merlot blend and will probably be the closest to what you are used to."
Well, the rest of the meal went well, although, as usual, we were the only table in the place laughing and having a good time. I thought we were going to have to take the pulse of the couple next to us. Sometimes I wonder why people go out to dinner if they are just going to sit there pouting, but then I also question why some people are servers, and make good money in a semi-swanky French spot, when they are really just jerks who barely cracks a smile. In the end, the manager was the only one who found us mildly refreshing, and in fact thanked us personally for coming and enjoying ourselves.
Server: Can I get you something to drink, a glass of wine?
Me: Sure. (to friend) Hey, what are you drinking?
Friend 1: Bordeaux.
Me: Oh... hmmm... I'll just have a glass of Cabernet. Thank you.
Server (in painfully humorless you-must-be-an-idiot tone): Yep. That would be what she is having.
Me (wounded and a little mad): I apologize. I guess I know nothing about wine, and by your tone, that must have been a really stupid thing to say. I didn't realize Bordeaux and Cabernet were the same thing. Can you explain that to me?
Server (rambling, still humorless): Yes, something about grapes and regions and blends of this and that and yadda yadda yadda and clearly I don't really know what I am talking about but I like to make people feel stupid.
Right. The conversation went something like that. We ordered a bottle, and once she walked away I looked on the back label: 20 percent Cab, 70 percent Merlot and therefore 100 percent Bordeaux. Ok, friend, I may not fully understand, but I do know that 20 percent does not a Cabernet make. Maybe you could pass it off as a Merlot. I felt vindicated that I was not entirely wrong, and still annoyed at our crappy service. (But of course the exchange was fodder for laughs through the entire dinner: Thanks, I don't eat fish, so I'll have the grilled salmon for my entree. Or: No, thank you I don't like apples - I'll just have the apple tart for dessert.)
After dinner, I promptly called my BF, who actually does know a thing or two about wine and won't make you feel like an ass for not knowing, who explained to me that in fact, our server was a humorless ignoramous. See, allegedly French wine isn't like the wine we're used to (I personally prefer the Australian wines) - Merlot, Cabernet, Chardonnay - but in fact it's all blended. Chances are we won't get a 100 percent Cabernet, but a mix, and instead the server should have explained this and said something to the effect of, "The Bordeaux is a Cab-Merlot blend and will probably be the closest to what you are used to."
Well, the rest of the meal went well, although, as usual, we were the only table in the place laughing and having a good time. I thought we were going to have to take the pulse of the couple next to us. Sometimes I wonder why people go out to dinner if they are just going to sit there pouting, but then I also question why some people are servers, and make good money in a semi-swanky French spot, when they are really just jerks who barely cracks a smile. In the end, the manager was the only one who found us mildly refreshing, and in fact thanked us personally for coming and enjoying ourselves.
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
thoughts on Capote
I saw the movie Capote last night, and walked away wondering this:
Truman Capote threw out all notions of journalism ethics by infiltrating the town for information and becoming very close with the convicted killer, using him for the sake of the story. The result was In Cold Blood, arguably one of the best American books ever written and the advent of a new genre - the non fiction novel. But, does that make it OK? Do the ends justify the means?
Similar ethical issues exist today, perhaps to a different degree, with arguably different stakes. What's more, the journalism landscape is more aggressive and the public (and sources) more skeptical. But how much of that still happens, and how far should you go - or can you go without sacrificing your integrity - for the story?
Truman Capote threw out all notions of journalism ethics by infiltrating the town for information and becoming very close with the convicted killer, using him for the sake of the story. The result was In Cold Blood, arguably one of the best American books ever written and the advent of a new genre - the non fiction novel. But, does that make it OK? Do the ends justify the means?
Similar ethical issues exist today, perhaps to a different degree, with arguably different stakes. What's more, the journalism landscape is more aggressive and the public (and sources) more skeptical. But how much of that still happens, and how far should you go - or can you go without sacrificing your integrity - for the story?
Sunday, November 13, 2005
half-Jew or whole?
Growing up, I never really questioned the legitimacy of my religion. I was raised Jewish, went to temple and Hebrew school and had a bat mitzvah. As a reform Jew, I understood that even though my mom was Catholic and my father Jewish, I was raised Jewish and therefore was Jewish. 100 percent Jew. Not half, not just sort of, but Jewish.
Now, I am finding some people don't think that's the case. Reform or not, the mother has to be Jewish for you to be, regardless of how many years I put it at the synagogue. Sure, I might have been bat mitzvah'ed but I don't go to temple now, I don't know all the funny Yiddish phrases and I often forget a holiday until I get a call from my father - so I must be a faker, a halvsie, a mere gentile. I met a Jewish woman last night wearing a shirt that said "Gefilte" with a picture of a fish under it. I got it, and I was immediately in, and she was ready to take me to all the Jewish volunteer events. But then I didn't get some obscure Jewish reference and I think I mentioned my mom was Catholic or that I was raised a Jew but am not practicing now (often my retorts when questioned on the veracity of Judaism claim), and I was out of the club just like that.
This seems to happen every once in a while. That and the look of shock and humor when I tell someone that I am a Jew from Alabama... "Wait, there are Jews in Alabama?!" I quip: "Yeah, I'm like one of three," which for the record is not true, as there was a substantial Jewish community in the 'Ham. But why bother? On the face of it, it may seem strange, but so does the idea of someone coming from Alabama, so what do I know?
So what makes a Jew? Growing up in the temple and being bat mitzvah'ed? Being born to a Jewish mother? Picking up on all the obscure Hebrew or Yiddish references tossed out at you like a test?
I guess I am just not sure where I fit in, and ultimately I have to figure it doesn't matter. For me, Judaism was a religion, not a culture, which I suppose precludes me from the joining the Real Jews Club. And after my bat mitzvah, I chose not to attend temple, participating only in holidays with my family. As I get older, I feel drawn back to it, but at the same time unsure of what extent (and a little overwhelmed by the clubbiness). If I just want to celebrate a few holidays or attend temple every once in a while, does that make me just a pretend Jew, a wannabe Chosen One, or is it a lost cause since I am allegedly only half Jewish and therefore don't really count to begin with?
*****
In a completely unrelated matter, I am embarking on something of a bathing experiment. See, after polling a few girlfriends (and even a few guy friends this summer in DC who owned up to their arguably girlie shower routines), I might be one of the only women who still uses just bar soap in the shower. No loofah, body wash, shave gel, face wash business. No clutter of dozens of bottles promising soft this and exfoliated that. Just shampoo and bar soap.
I grew up using Ivory, and never graduated to the scented scrubs and herbal washes of my fellow female (and male) bathers. It never bothered me, and in fact I delight in the low maintenance of a 4-minute shower. But now, I am curious.
I went to Walgreens this morning and dropped $20 on moisturizing body wash, shave gel, a loofah, lotion. The works. So for the next few days, I am going to trade in the bar soap for all the girlie business. I am not sure what I am expecting, or if I really even care, but it's certainly worth seeing what all the hype is about.
*****
And finally, it has once again been proven to me that I am terrible at trivia. Scratch that. I am mediocre at it. I went to a trivia game yesterday with some friends, and although my team (Team Smartification) was the funnest and by far the rowdiest, we were neither the winners (who banked the $200 pot) or the losers (who got free drinks from the bar). The team that won sat straight-faced in the corner, barely cracking a smile and looking generally bored and miserable. It turns out they are regular competitors, working the circuit of trivia games. They may have won, but they had zero fun.
Meanwhile, we came in a mediocre, average, unmemorable fourth. The group agreed that MC Ed's questions were ultra-obscure, but perhaps we were saying to make us feel smarter (or more smartified, as we said). To be sure, I did contribute at least one tough answer that flew over the other contestants' heads - What is the common name for H1N5? The bird flu.
Now, I am finding some people don't think that's the case. Reform or not, the mother has to be Jewish for you to be, regardless of how many years I put it at the synagogue. Sure, I might have been bat mitzvah'ed but I don't go to temple now, I don't know all the funny Yiddish phrases and I often forget a holiday until I get a call from my father - so I must be a faker, a halvsie, a mere gentile. I met a Jewish woman last night wearing a shirt that said "Gefilte" with a picture of a fish under it. I got it, and I was immediately in, and she was ready to take me to all the Jewish volunteer events. But then I didn't get some obscure Jewish reference and I think I mentioned my mom was Catholic or that I was raised a Jew but am not practicing now (often my retorts when questioned on the veracity of Judaism claim), and I was out of the club just like that.
This seems to happen every once in a while. That and the look of shock and humor when I tell someone that I am a Jew from Alabama... "Wait, there are Jews in Alabama?!" I quip: "Yeah, I'm like one of three," which for the record is not true, as there was a substantial Jewish community in the 'Ham. But why bother? On the face of it, it may seem strange, but so does the idea of someone coming from Alabama, so what do I know?
So what makes a Jew? Growing up in the temple and being bat mitzvah'ed? Being born to a Jewish mother? Picking up on all the obscure Hebrew or Yiddish references tossed out at you like a test?
I guess I am just not sure where I fit in, and ultimately I have to figure it doesn't matter. For me, Judaism was a religion, not a culture, which I suppose precludes me from the joining the Real Jews Club. And after my bat mitzvah, I chose not to attend temple, participating only in holidays with my family. As I get older, I feel drawn back to it, but at the same time unsure of what extent (and a little overwhelmed by the clubbiness). If I just want to celebrate a few holidays or attend temple every once in a while, does that make me just a pretend Jew, a wannabe Chosen One, or is it a lost cause since I am allegedly only half Jewish and therefore don't really count to begin with?
*****
In a completely unrelated matter, I am embarking on something of a bathing experiment. See, after polling a few girlfriends (and even a few guy friends this summer in DC who owned up to their arguably girlie shower routines), I might be one of the only women who still uses just bar soap in the shower. No loofah, body wash, shave gel, face wash business. No clutter of dozens of bottles promising soft this and exfoliated that. Just shampoo and bar soap.
I grew up using Ivory, and never graduated to the scented scrubs and herbal washes of my fellow female (and male) bathers. It never bothered me, and in fact I delight in the low maintenance of a 4-minute shower. But now, I am curious.
I went to Walgreens this morning and dropped $20 on moisturizing body wash, shave gel, a loofah, lotion. The works. So for the next few days, I am going to trade in the bar soap for all the girlie business. I am not sure what I am expecting, or if I really even care, but it's certainly worth seeing what all the hype is about.
*****
And finally, it has once again been proven to me that I am terrible at trivia. Scratch that. I am mediocre at it. I went to a trivia game yesterday with some friends, and although my team (Team Smartification) was the funnest and by far the rowdiest, we were neither the winners (who banked the $200 pot) or the losers (who got free drinks from the bar). The team that won sat straight-faced in the corner, barely cracking a smile and looking generally bored and miserable. It turns out they are regular competitors, working the circuit of trivia games. They may have won, but they had zero fun.
Meanwhile, we came in a mediocre, average, unmemorable fourth. The group agreed that MC Ed's questions were ultra-obscure, but perhaps we were saying to make us feel smarter (or more smartified, as we said). To be sure, I did contribute at least one tough answer that flew over the other contestants' heads - What is the common name for H1N5? The bird flu.
Saturday, November 12, 2005
Cleveland rocks!
I am never one to shy away from the chance for a completely random and pointless road trip, so when the idea of heading to Cleveland came up a week or so ago, I was in. See, my friend CK had been mulling over a job opening at the alternative weekly there, Scene, and had been emailing constantly with a former Mediller who is a staff writer there.
Apparently the interviewing process for the Scene is getting wasted with the editor, which I haven't decided is awesome or pathetic and slightly misguided. Jury's out. But to consider the job and whether she wanted to be at an alt weekly, CK thought it'd be fun to truck out there and hang out with the Sceners. And as usual, I am the willing partner in crime.
But as the debate between alt weekly and daily continues, CK wound up taking a job at a daily, the weekly position was filled internally and all that was open was an editorial assistant position, which they realistically call mail sorter. So perhaps our reasons for the trip were fizzling, but then you know, why not go to Cleveland? I've never been to Ohio or driven through Indiana, and I just did not feel complete.
Thursday morning, we get in the car for a day of endless driving, stopping only for what the rest stop restaurant called a panini - which was in fact, an open faced chicken sandwich with lettuce on a toasted bun - and an Us Weekly and People magazines, which I read outloud, assuming the requisite different voices to match the riveting storylines.
We roll into Cleveland and pick up a six-pack of Miller Lite for our gracious host. We worried for a minute if it was going to be weird, spending the evening with people we don't really know, certified only by the Medill seal of approval, but here we were, feeling a little crazy but ready for the adventure. And right away when we met the kids from the Scene, we realized it was going to be fun.
The editor was pretty much everything they described him as - a 45-year-old Irish Catholic father of five who can drink any weathered sailor under the table (but doesn't touch the stuff on the weekend - he is a family man after all, he explained). He drinks only Canadian beer and anything with whiskey in it. He slips in and out of an Irish accent tinged with hints of Minnesota intonation. He bossed his young reporters around ("Have some class, and get these ladies a beer!"). He struck me as a somewhat washed-up though likely talented writer, who his young staff wanted to revere as a wise Hunter S. Thompson type as he expounded the finer points of writing (more alt weekly v. daily) and living life to the fullest. I am not sure I quite saw him that way, but I won't discount the fun of meeting him.
The next morning, we headed to IHOP for an egg sandwich and a daytime glimpse of America's heartland, the salt of the Earth, the country's slight majority. It felt very Midwest, very American, through and through. Sure Cleveland's liberal, right?, but I couldn't help but look around and realize this was America. These were the people that elected our president and set the tone of the so-called values and priorities of our country. No judgment here, it was just new to me.
Then it was off to experience Cleveland, which took all of an hour. We drove through downtown (35 seconds), stopped for photos in a park overlooking Lake Eerie (12 minutes) and stopped by the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, bypassing the $20 admission and hitting the gift shop for Cleveland magnets (26 minutes). The downtown area was beautiful and spanking clean, like it was built yesterday and sandblasted this morning for the tourists. We never really found the area of restaurants, bars, shops that we knew must exist somewhere for the 20- and 30-somethings, but I think our time there gave us a nice slice of a city in America's heartland.
Apparently the interviewing process for the Scene is getting wasted with the editor, which I haven't decided is awesome or pathetic and slightly misguided. Jury's out. But to consider the job and whether she wanted to be at an alt weekly, CK thought it'd be fun to truck out there and hang out with the Sceners. And as usual, I am the willing partner in crime.
But as the debate between alt weekly and daily continues, CK wound up taking a job at a daily, the weekly position was filled internally and all that was open was an editorial assistant position, which they realistically call mail sorter. So perhaps our reasons for the trip were fizzling, but then you know, why not go to Cleveland? I've never been to Ohio or driven through Indiana, and I just did not feel complete.
Thursday morning, we get in the car for a day of endless driving, stopping only for what the rest stop restaurant called a panini - which was in fact, an open faced chicken sandwich with lettuce on a toasted bun - and an Us Weekly and People magazines, which I read outloud, assuming the requisite different voices to match the riveting storylines.
We roll into Cleveland and pick up a six-pack of Miller Lite for our gracious host. We worried for a minute if it was going to be weird, spending the evening with people we don't really know, certified only by the Medill seal of approval, but here we were, feeling a little crazy but ready for the adventure. And right away when we met the kids from the Scene, we realized it was going to be fun.
The editor was pretty much everything they described him as - a 45-year-old Irish Catholic father of five who can drink any weathered sailor under the table (but doesn't touch the stuff on the weekend - he is a family man after all, he explained). He drinks only Canadian beer and anything with whiskey in it. He slips in and out of an Irish accent tinged with hints of Minnesota intonation. He bossed his young reporters around ("Have some class, and get these ladies a beer!"). He struck me as a somewhat washed-up though likely talented writer, who his young staff wanted to revere as a wise Hunter S. Thompson type as he expounded the finer points of writing (more alt weekly v. daily) and living life to the fullest. I am not sure I quite saw him that way, but I won't discount the fun of meeting him.
The next morning, we headed to IHOP for an egg sandwich and a daytime glimpse of America's heartland, the salt of the Earth, the country's slight majority. It felt very Midwest, very American, through and through. Sure Cleveland's liberal, right?, but I couldn't help but look around and realize this was America. These were the people that elected our president and set the tone of the so-called values and priorities of our country. No judgment here, it was just new to me.
Then it was off to experience Cleveland, which took all of an hour. We drove through downtown (35 seconds), stopped for photos in a park overlooking Lake Eerie (12 minutes) and stopped by the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, bypassing the $20 admission and hitting the gift shop for Cleveland magnets (26 minutes). The downtown area was beautiful and spanking clean, like it was built yesterday and sandblasted this morning for the tourists. We never really found the area of restaurants, bars, shops that we knew must exist somewhere for the 20- and 30-somethings, but I think our time there gave us a nice slice of a city in America's heartland.
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